

THE SMOKE THAT THUNDERS

a novel

by Nathan Bassett

Copyright 2010 Nathan Bassett

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Smoke That Thunders is a work of fiction and all characters or fictional, any resemblance to individuals dead or alive is not intended. Occasional events and accounts portrayed are based on actual events and reports but have been embellished.

PROLOGUE

January 21, 1977

Peter looked at his watch. "Fifty-four minutes. Damn near an hour since they told us to sit here. What's going on? Wait, wait, wait. They always tell us to wait."

Chad opened his eyes. He muttered, "You should be used to it by now." He closed his eyes and folded his arms.

Peter felt his chest stiffen. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and then exhaled slowly. He began to draw another breath when a voice called out, "Mr. McKnight? Mr. Daley?"

The two Americans sprang to their feet.

A diminutive bald man, in khaki shorts, motioned them to come forward, barking "This way!"

With a brisk stride, he led them through an impressive mahogany-paneled room, reminiscent of the great estate homes in Europe. He ushered them into a glassed-in area in the far corner of the huge room and told them to take a seat. It was an auspicious office, the opulent nest of some high-grade official convinced of his own self-importance. They had always dealt with non-caring, nonverbal peons behind glass-partitioned counters; this was something new.

Peter leaned over and whispered to Chad, "What the hell is this about?"

Chad shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. Just relax."

Through the glass wall, they watched workers, all of them White, hustling back and forth between crowded rows of cluttered office desks.

Chad nudged Peter with his elbow. "Look at those guys in their khaki shorts. Only in Africa. You know they go home in pith helmets?"

Peter nodded, showing no emotion. His eyes remained fixed on the slow-moving fans hung from two massive beams supporting the thirty-foot ceiling in the stately hall. His thoughts wandered back to that first day in South Africa: both excitement and anxiety had rushed through his veins as they drove down the highway away from Jan Smuts Airport. He had leaned his head out the car window, allowing his hair to blow wildly as his nostrils and lungs caught the air of this foreign world – air so different in its smell, texture, and feel. Africa had welcomed him, embraced him that morning.

Chad interrupted Peter's wandering thoughts. "Odds they kick us out of the country today? I put it at 95 percent."

"At least," Peter responded, still staring at the whirling blades moving slowly and methodically. He then looked at Chad and said, "I still don't know about this Rhodesia plan. I just don't know."

Chad rolled his eyes. "Don't keep going on about that. It is a great plan. It _will_ work just fine." He leaned toward Peter and said, "Go back to the States if you want. That'd be fine with me."

Peter shook his head resolutely, but his voice quavered. "No. I am not going home. I'll do what I have to do." The thought of going to Rhodesia did not appeal to either one of them, though for Peter, the growing possibility of a month in a war-torn country was a terrifying proposition.

Twenty minutes later, a stout, well-weathered gentleman dressed in a three-piece gray suit, burst through the door. A brash black-and-red striped tie drew attention to his bulging, wrinkled neck. In his right fist, he clutched copies of their visas, their temporary permits, and the denials and appeals for extensions. Under his left arm, he held a bulky, tattered folder.

_Surely, nothing to do with us_ , Peter thought.

With his elbow, the man flipped a switch next to the door; a fan above his desk awakened, causing piles of disorganized papers on the desktop to rustle. He declared authority as he sat down in his worn leather chair and postured himself as a feared dictator would. He tossed the bulky folder down with a _thud_ , silencing whispering loose papers. Their futures lay in this man's hands; Peter assumed the glint in the man's eyes declared he had already made his decision.

The man looked brashly through the papers he held. He then shoved them under the tattered folder. Glowering at the nervous Americans feigning confidence, he spoke, "Why is it you are here in South Africa? Eh? Why are you loafing around this country?" He fired his words out in a thick Afrikaans accent; his tone did not seek answers as much as make accusations.

Chad offered a polite smile and stated, "We're staying with a friend. He is South African. He invited us over."

"Where have you been staying since you arrived in South Africa?" This was said slowly, yet even more accusing.

Peter stammered, "We've been staying with our friend in... in Vanderbijlpark."

"And? Where else have you been? Tell me!" The Afrikaner's sharp glare rested on Peter, then Chad.

"We took a trip to Kruger and a few other places. That's about it." Chad's smile disappeared.

"Where else? Where else have you been in my country?"

The pair glanced at one another. Chad held his breath and pulled in his lower lip.

Peter knew his friend's rage was beginning to boil. Peter fought his own instinct to run, to disappear, to shut down, but he knew he had to be the one to speak. He responded in a fading mumble, "We spent time with some friends... different places... a little time in Johannesburg now and then. A few trips around, here and there. Mainly in Vanderbijlpark though. We stay there."

The man leaned back in his chair; it creaked and moaned as if it was irritated by his weight. With a slight curl in his lip, he asked, "Have you been working?"

Peter's stomach tightened and his head began to spin. He shook his head, as Chad indignantly said, "No."

"Then tell me, how do you support yourselves?"

Peter attempted to raise his voice. It crackled and faded, barely allowing his words to surface. "With money we earned back home."

Sweat began to ooze from the creases imprinted on this important man's forehead. "Have you worked in this country? Have you been working here, in South Africa?"

In unison, they replied. "No!"

"Have you worked here?" His anger began to seethe, bolstering his already intimidating tone.

"No! We-have-not-worked-here," Chad pronounced each word with care.

From the thick folder, the official pulled out a newspaper clipping from a township's local newspaper.

Their eyes grew wide as their jaws drooped. The two looked at one another; Peter knew Chad's thoughts mirrored his: _How'd he get that?_ _Why does he care about what we've been doing?_ It was a photograph of the two foreigners playing soccer with a group of young African children. The caption read, 'Two Americans, Peter McKnight and Chet Day, assist a Johannesburg church's outreach in Sharpeville.'

"We weren't work—" Peter's throat constricted, causing his voice to tremble. The next syllable refused to come out.

Chad stepped in. "We weren't working. We were just volunteers there. They didn't pay us anything, and it was only for one day anyway. It's no big deal."

The man pulled out a second news clipping, from _The West Rand Times_. He snarled, "And this?"

It was a picture of the two with a group of White children at a youth camp near Krugersdorp.

Chad's response was now subdued. "We were just helping, volunteering. It was only for a couple of weeks at some summer church camps. That's why we applied for work permits ages ago, but it was just for volunteering anyway, not working. Nobody paid us a cent."

The man pulled out a third picture of Peter playing soccer with young Africans in Soweto. He held it up and said nothing. Peter was certain the man's eyes were going to burst into flames.

Peter mumbled, "We were never paid. We applied for—"

" _Ag nee_. I do not care! All this is work, and it is all illegal. You are here on holiday permits. You are not here on work permits." The man pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his forehead. "You have violated your visas and South Africa's trust. You have broken our laws." Disgust and intimidation reverberated through the Afrikaner's declaration.

_My God! They are going to put us in jail!_ Peter communicated his fear in a furtive glance toward Chad.

"Why are you here?"

"We did some church things, just helping out, but mainly it's just been a holiday," Peter said apologetically.

Chad added, "It's been a chance to see a different country."

"Why are you here?" Spit spewed from his mouth like venom from a cobra.

The young men remained silent.

The gentleman stood up. He bent over his desk and supported himself with his short, thick arms; his blue eyes were piercing, and his white skin glowed with a rosy hue. He said, "We have more and more of you young upstarts coming into our country, coming here thinking they can bring their communist garbage, thinking they know better, thinking they will save the Kaffirs. You arrogant Americans! You goddamn self-righteous Americans! You think you can save the world. You do not understand this country! You do not understand our people!" After a slow breath, he spoke slowly, with finality. "You are trouble. You are not welcome in South Africa. You are to leave this country today, and you shall never return to South Africa. Thank you, gentlemen." He stamped their papers, opened the door, and pointed across the beautiful great hall to the way out.

The two hurried across the mammoth room, down a short corridor, and out a side door into the cool breeze of a summer morning.

"Oh my God!" Peter let out, desperately trying to expel his built-up tension. "Oh my God! We've been kicked out, _persona non grata_."

Chad responded, "That son of bitch has thrown us out for good. They think we're damn communists. Communists! That's your fault, Peter. You _had_ to drag me to that damn township. You _had_ to go to Soweto and let some dumb ass take your picture. You've made it impossible for either one of us to ever come back here!"

"God, shut up. Shut it! It's not my fault they're so freakin paranoid."

***

They walked down the steps that wind through the sprawling tiered gardens in front of parliament buildings that overlook Pretoria. Jacaranda trees bursting with bright blue blooms dotted the landscape. Thousands of meticulously placed King Proteas, aloes, and rose geraniums welcomed them with soothing scents, while exotic birds greeted them with songs they had never heard before. Simon sat on a wooden bench, eating a sandwich and holding a flask of tea between his legs. They were glad to see their friend, relieved to hear his English South African accent—more soothing, more understandable, more understanding than the Dutch-related Afrikaans with its abrupt, guttural, staccato speech pattern, which can seem intrusive to the foreign ear.

Simon set his flask on the ground, folded his arms, and fixed his gaze on the city's distant skyline as they related the worse than expected news. They would indeed have to leave the country ... immediately. No, they could never come back. They were now branded as _persona non grata_.

"They think we're communists, Simon. They think we're damn communists!"

As Chad said this, Peter looked away, knowing Chad would be staring straight at him. Peter mouthed some words, but his tightened lungs did not allow him enough air to project his own frustrations. He continued to take deep breaths, trying to slow down his heart rate and satisfy his starving lungs.

Simon sat pensively, allowing his two friends to calm themselves. Finally, he let out a prolonged and heavy breath and slowly said, "Let me see what I can do. Dad has a favor or two I can call in. If... if I can find the right person to talk to. Let me see. I should have gone with you two. I knew I should have. Never mind. Let me see if I can find... just let me see what I can do to fix this." Simon took the papers stamped ' _persona non grata'_ and walked slowly but resolutely toward the grand mahogany hall.

***

With the crescendo of their tension waning, Peter and Chad talked again about the plan. "Surely we could go somewhere else, anywhere but Rhodesia," Peter moaned.

"So let's head to Australia. They say the sheilas are wild and wonderful there, mate," Chad said with exaggerated Australian accent.

Peter was subdued in his fantasy. "I've always wanted to spend some time in England. There's lots of history to get lost in there, really Old World stuff."

Both knew there were only two options: They would go to Rhodesia or return home. Neither was ready to go back to America. South Africa had much more in store for them; they did not want to be anywhere else. If going to Rhodesia meant they might have the opportunity to return, then that is what they would do. However, if Simon did not turn this around, if he could not get the _persona non grata_ rescinded, it would be a guaranteed long, arduous trip back to the States.

***

An hour later, which felt like three or four, Simon returned. "Some good fortune indeed! I found that official who knows my father. I was able to vouch for you two, and I made a solemn promise that you are not the sort to stir up any trouble. Do you understand that, Peter?"

Peter nodded, avoiding eye contact with Simon.

"He agreed to repeal the _persona non grata_. You should be able to return. Let's get going. You've got to catch the next flight to Bulawayo."

Rhodesia it was. Peter's heart quickened; going to a war-torn country was not an adventure he had bargained for. Chad let out a shout of relief and satisfaction; he would be able to return to South Africa, where he knew his destiny lay.

***

They went straight to Jan Smuts Airport in Simon's 1972 faded red Ford Cortina. Their flight arrived at Bulawayo Airport at three forty-five p.m. Near a kiosk selling fresh fruit, flowers, and newspapers, they located Richard's number in a tattered phonebook.

Chad made the call. "We're friends of Simon... Yes... Oh, he's fine... Yes, indeed he is. Well, we've had to make a sudden trip to Rhodesia. We hate to impose, but Simon thought perhaps you could, uh, help us out? Yes... if it is possible. We don't want to put you out... Oh, that would be cool! Great!... Thank you. Yes... Okay. Thank you so much."

"So what'd he say?" Peter asked.

"It's cool. We need to get the bus into Bulawayo, to the Ma... Mapoo... Mpopoma Train Station. He said to wait in the parking lot. They're... I think he said about an hour or so away."

The bus arrived at the train station in half an hour. They found a bench near the car park and waited.

Shortly after five, a car slowed, and a woman leaned her head out the window and asked, "Are you two mates of Simon's?"

They nodded.

The car stopped, and the couple got out.

They greeted the two travelers with comforting friendliness, but also with a keen sense of urgency. The man spoke quickly as he offered rushed handshakes. "I'm Richard. This is my wife Amanda. Such a pleasure to meet you! I'm afraid we must hurry on. It shall be getting dark very soon."

Richard opened the trunk of his car, pulled a rifle out, and handed it to Amanda. He tossed their luggage into what he called 'the boot.' As they got into the car, Amanda cocked the rifle and placed the butt on the top of the front seat and the barrel on the dashboard. She carefully wrapped her arm around the rifle, placed her finger on the trigger guard and, in a very matter-of-fact manner, stated, "We're ready. Let's roll." She looked to the back seat and calmly said, "The terrs, they prefer to come out at night, but we should be just fine."

The two in the back seat looked at each other and mouthed the words, "What the hell are we doing here?"
PART I

SEPTEMBER 1974 - AUGUST 1976

CHAPTER 1

Worlds Apart

Peter McKnight finished the dreaded task: All his earthly belongings were back in place, freed from their summer hibernation. He looked around his ten-by-fifteen room. A small, but adequate eight-track stereo system rested on a tiny refrigerator beneath the window, and his modest collection of eight-track tapes were stacked neatly beside the fridge. Last year's textbooks, lined neatly from tallest to shortest, gave an air of intelligence to the small bookshelf above the bed. A picture of his family – mom, dad, and two sisters standing on the south rim of the Grand Canyon – sat on a small desk and drew out a smile as he glanced at it. On the wall above the headboard was a lone poster, a stunning view of the skyline of Beirut, Lebanon; the scene always evoked a tinge of jealousy. He smoothed the multicolored Mexican serape blanket covering his bed. Smiling, he said to himself, _Feels good to be back in Norman, back on campus._ The University of Oklahoma felt like home.

***

Peter pulled his room door shut, locked it, and started walking down the corridor in his habitual turtle-like pace. He counted loose change as he walked, making sure he had enough for a Coke and a bag of chips from the vending machines in the lobby. As he looked up, he caught a glimpse of someone. _Shit! Who's_ _that guy_?

They exchanged a fleeting glance, but neither gave the other acknowledgment. This was unusual in Oklahoma, where everyone at least pretends to be friendly. Their eyes had barely connected, but that was enough. As he continued down the hallway, Peter heard the _click_ of an unlocking door – the one opposite his.

First impressions are everything; they say that the first minute gets you the job. In that surreptitious glance, that first impression, Peter _knew_ this guy: disgustingly clean cut, smartly dressed in shorts meant to display his muscle-hardened bronzed legs; the collar of his pink polo shirt turned up. And then there was that obnoxious wavy blond hair and those oversized sideburns, drawing attention to a face just rugged enough to reflect manliness, yet boyish enough to suggest a mischievous streak. _A face shallow and coquettish bleached blondes drool over. I hate frat boys,_ Peter thought.

Peter mumbled to himself as he stared at the Coke machine, "No way that guy belongs here. Damn pretender, spawn of some rich daddy, raised to think he's all that. He's an idiot – one of those guys who only cares about the weekend parties. A stereotypical Greek, a freakin' frat boy. That's all he is. Belongs in a damn fraternity house. What's he doing in my dorm?"

The vending machine had no answer for him except for the humdrum buzzing from its illuminated red and white panels.

As he put his coins into the vending machine, a wave of anxiety overwhelmed him. _Wait... that guy is going to be my neighbor._ He took several slow, deep breaths and went to sit down in the dorm common area, where he waited for his nerves to settle.

Anxiety was Peter's secret, something he kept hidden with great emotional effort. Long ago, he had accepted that he would have to live with this anxiety, its senseless ebb and flow. But a panic attack? That was an entirely different species. The first attacks occurred during his senior year of high school. Four times, he went to the school nurse, only to be told in a most condescending, irritated tone, "It's just a bit of stress, Peter. Now go back to class and relax, you'll be fine." He could have sworn that more than once, he saw the nurse roll her eyes at him as if he were making the whole thing up, assuming he just wanted to get out of class. He desperately wanted to scream, _You don't understand! I am going to die! I can't breathe, my chest is tight! My arms and legs are numb, I'm dizzy as hell! My heart is going to explode! You're gonna be sorry when I'm dead!_

During one attack, he went to the emergency room. After waiting three hours, he finally told a young doctor of his life-threatening symptoms. "Now, Peter," the doctor responded, "you've checked out just fine. There is nothing wrong here. Everything is fine. Go home and take it easy. It will pass." Then the doctor put his hand on his knee and patted him as if he was a silly boy imagining monsters in his closet.

Peter went home to die, though he never did. After two more visits to the ER, he came to the realization that there was no option – he would have to endure these cruel and heartless beasts, which, at their pleasure, would continue to attack him in their effort to undermine his humanity and devour his fragile sense of self.

***

Chad Daley arrived two days earlier and had already settled in his new home. This was his first year at the University of Oklahoma, and he had come early to get a feel for the campus and explore must-see haunts of Norman.

In his room, everything was in its place: Posters of Chris Evert, Farrah Fawcett, Led Zeppelin and The Who lined the tacky lime green walls. His 252 vinyl record – all in pristine condition and ordered alphabetically by band and the year released. The lack of any books (textbook or otherwise) was obvious. A nineteen-inch television sat on the built-in desk that was supposed to be used for late-night studying. Encroaching on a quarter of the room sat his most prized possession: a state-of-the-art Yamaha stereo system, boasting four grandiose speakers designed to enhance the squeal of Peter Townsend's guitar solos and the angry drum rhythms Keith Moon created to vibrate the souls of all youth.

As a young boy, Chad discovered that he had a gift. He did not understand it, nor did he brag about it, but he used it to its fullest. Chad had the rare talent of being able to utilize the minimum to attain the maximum. He was able to do as little as possible while somehow still impressing the masses. He had applied his unique talent to his academic career, putting forth minimal effort yet always somehow making the grade. He lived his life pretending to care about what he was supposed to care about and always had people clamoring to be his friend.

Early on in his life, he learned to use his gift wisely. He would give the impression that he was working hard, while he was only looking for the next eager and worthy female. Ever since Chad had kissed Emily Johnston at her eleventh birthday party, all that mattered to him was girls. He'd just turned ten at that time and thought it doubly exciting that she was an _older woman_. He never really cared about finding the _right one_ ; after all, it was fun and safe to pursue the 'wrong ones'. That was how he used his gift.

***

When Chad passed Peter in the hallway, he cringed. _Damn hippie_! _I'll be living next to a goddamn hippie._ The shoulder-length, straggly hair, that unkempt and oversized beard; it was all too disgusting. _Probably hides his joints in that repulsive road kill he calls a beard_. Chad knew that those bell-bottom trousers and baggy shirt came straight from the 1960s. _Vintage my ass. He got that out of the bottom of some bargain bin at a goddamn thrift store._ Chad purposely communicated his lackluster opinion of this guy with his fleeting glance, and he was sure the tramp clearly understood the message. When he closed the door to his room, he went to the window and screamed out, "Holy crap! I live next to a pot-smoking, acid-dropping, out-of-date, wannabe hippie. Lucky me!"

***

A month went by. The neighbors passed each other countless times, both carefully avoiding eye contact with each hallway encounter. There was no point. They lived in different worlds, and both were content with and proud of their own.

One Saturday, Peter caught sight of Chad walking down the hall, dressed in snug white shorts, a crimson button-up shirt, and carrying a megaphone. _Oh my God!_ Peter mused. _He's a mindless, obnoxious, goddamn cheerleader on his way to make a fool of himself in front of 70,000 people at the freakin' football game!_ Peter's opinion of his neighbor plummeted to a new depth that day.

***

Peter sat in the back row of the large theater classroom in Psychology 203, Current Theories in Social Psychology. Roderick Kingsbury, the most feared professor in the psychology department, had just paired up students to work on class presentations, due just before the Thanksgiving holiday. God, how Peter hated presentations, hated working with another human being and actually having to communicate. As long as Peter did not have to interact, he could remain mysterious, hidden. He hoped some might even assume he was intelligent, a thinker – after all, still waters run deep.

After everyone paired up with his or her chosen partner, Peter, as always, was left the odd man out. He dreaded being assigned as the third wheel with one of the twosomes, and he felt the anxiety rising in the form of a lump that started in his stomach and worked its way up into his chest and throat.

"Anyone without a partner?" Professor Kingsbury asked in his always accusatory tone. Peter didn't look, but he knew the professor's eyes were peering at him. With great effort, and in slow motion, Peter's hand began to ascend. _God why me? Always the last one picked, always the leftover. Why!_?

"What shall we do with Mr. McKnight? How about..."

Before Professor Kingsbury could assign Peter to one of the twosomes, Chad burst through the door and proudly apologized, "Sorry I'm late." He strutted down to the front row and plopped down in an empty chair, completely ignoring the professor's glare meant to punish him for having the audacity to enter his classroom late.

Kingsbury pointed his index finger toward Chad and said, "Mr. Daley, you are not to enter my classroom tardy again."

Chad smiled and nodded.

Kingsbury shook his head as he turned his gaze toward Peter, "You are in luck, Mr. McKnight. Your partner has decided to grace us with his presence."

"Shit!" Peter said loud enough for several heads to turn. It wasn't that the language surprised them, but more so that it was the first utterance they had heard from this student in six weeks of class. Peter knew Chad was in the class; he always sat in the front, nestled in between two cheerleader types. Peter religiously sat in the back row in his effort to fade into the woodwork and hopefully into oblivion.

Chad glanced toward Peter when Kingsbury pronounced them partners for the inane project. This was the first time the neighbors' eyes had made contact since that first day. "Oh damn. It's that hippie," Chad said to the two bleached blondes next to him. When they looked back, disgusted snarls appeared as they noticed the unkempt beard.

Kingsbury passed out the assigned topics to each pair. Peter and Chad's presentation was to be on, "The Application of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs in a Post-1960's Culture."

"Easy enough, if I can just figure out what a Maslow is," Chad complained.

Peter cast a cruel glare.

With a slight grin, Chad said, "Just kidding, just kidding. Lighten up, flower child."

Peter's rolled his eyes as he shook his head.

Later, they met briefly at Bizzell Library to discuss key resources and then divide Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs: physiological needs, safety and security needs, belonging and love needs, self-esteem needs, and the need for self-actualization. Peter insisted he would take the top two and his grudging partner could cover the bottom three. He had already researched self-esteem and self-actualization and did not want to have to do any more work than necessary.

Chad declared he would present on these same two needs. The more Peter insisted, the more Chad dug his heels. Then, all of a sudden, Chad said, "Fine. Here's what we'll do. Let's flip a coin. Heads and I'll choose."

Peter shook his head and muttered, "Whatever. Go on then." Peter wasn't sure, but it seemed the fellow was arguing simply for the sport of it.

The coin decided, and they divided the list of needs. They did not see each other again until the day of the presentation. It was not that Peter trusted Chad to do his part of the work, he certainly did not. But, Peter knew communicating with any semblance of civility with one another would be next to impossible.

When the day of the presentation arrived, Peter desperately wanted to skip the class, give Chad his notes and stay in bed; partly because of his propensity for panic attacks in such situations and partly because he felt fluey and knew death was beckoning. However, he knew he had no choice. The presentation constituted one-third of their final grade, and that full-of-himself pretty boy was depending on him. He hated this fact, but he respected his responsibility, though he did not respect the one to whom he was responsible.
CHAPTER 2

An Accidental Friendship

The two walked back to the dorm together. Peter's impulse was to walk faster and leave Chad behind, but he did not want to be seen as childish. He gritted his teeth and focused on an oak tree at the far end of Lindsey Street.

Chad started jabbering – something about next weekend's football game – and then he bemoaned that the Sooners were on some sort of probation and something about the possibility of a national championship and someone he called 'Little Joe' having a chance to win something called 'the Heisman.'

Peter pretended to listen as Chad prattled on about football, or at least he assumed it was football. It was all pointless gibberish to Peter. Near the top of Peter's 'Twenty Things I Hate Most in Life' list was America's obsession with football. He had long ago decided it was a barbaric game that should be banned. _The 'sooner' the better_ , he thought. It did occur to him, though, that perhaps Chad was attempting to bring a momentary truce to the ridiculous unspoken feud they each had silently declared after that first glance. He quickly decided the guy was only feeling sorry for him.

Peter was about to turn and walk the other way when Chad said, "Hey, it really didn't go so bad. I'm sure Kingsbury won't grade you too hard."

Peter gave Chad a defiant stare that clearly conveyed, _Shut up. We're not going to talk about what just happened_.

Chad ignored the look. He chuckled and said, "Come on! It's not that big a deal."

Peter's glower intensified. "What happened in Kingsbury's class is never to be talked about or mentioned again." Peter stated this as firmly as he could in his naturally low, deep voice – a voice that refused to project itself and gave the distinct impression to those who might be listening that his words offered nothing of any importance.

"You're right. It is forgotten. I'm sure everyone will forget it... even if they noticed. Nothing to worry about. I bet—"

Peter sped up, intending to leave Chad behind.

Chad caught him by the shoulder and said, "Right, not another word. How 'bout a drink later? I mean, we are neighbors. We may as well act like it, at least once a semester."

"With you? No way." Peter was about to say, then he thought, _I've been snubbing this human being all semester. I never used to be this way. Oh what the shit._ He blurted out, "Sure. That's cool." He then stopped and said, "I've got to do something. I'll be back at the dorm in an hour or so."

"That'll work. See ya' then." Chad darted up the stairs to the dorm.

***

Chad shut the door to his dorm room and lay on his bed. _What the hell have I gotten myself into? Shoot! I thought he'd say "No thanks." And give me that go-to-hell look. Goddam it ! That's what I get for being nice. Not too worry. Chances are he'll just slither back to his room and hibernate for the rest of the school year. Yeah. What a pathetic goddamn hippie._ He drifted off to sleep.

A knock at his door startled Chad out of satisfying dream of friendly and topless co-eds. He got up, shook his head to shake off the residue of his nap, and answered the door.

A stranger, with a thin and gaunt face, stood motionless. His eyes appeared tired, if not entirely disengaged; they were eyes that seemed to wonder where they were. His haircut was much too short for 1974, cropped and nearly shaven.

_Hmm ... What do we have here? A lost ROTC cadet_? "What can I do for you?"

The stranger stood, staring.

"Well? What do you want, buddy?"

Still no response.

Chad's impatience surfaced just as effortlessly as his friendliness; he had no time for fools. "Jesus! What do you want?" He began to close his door.

"And I thought you were serious. Stupid me. To hell with you."

"Oh my God! Oh my God! How was I supposed to recognize _this_?" Chad said, pointing his finger toward the clean-shaven face. "Geez! I didn't know it was... God, I am sorrrrryyyy. I mean look at you, man! You _do_ resemble a human being. I always wondered what lurked beneath that massive hairball."

"So now you know. Did you want to have that drink for real, or were you just feeling sorry for me?"

"Of course it was out of pity, but I guess we can try it anyway. At least I won't be embarrassed to be seen with you now."

"Charming, aren't you?"

"It comes so naturally for me." Chad pointed to his hairless head. "Hey, you didn't do that because of what happened in—"

"It is never to be spoken of."

"Yeah, understood. Where you wanna go? Anyplace you hang out at? O'Connell's is good. Or the Mont?"

Peter smiled and said, "I know a good place."

Peter suggested a hangout he frequented, The Library – not the Bizzell Library, the university's library, but The Library, Norman's best-kept secret. The two-story house, built in 1901, overflowed with books, exclusively textbooks, from any course one could name: anthropology, zoology, and little-known subjects in between. It was the hidden cavern of a real-life urban legend, the lair of someone students called 'The Professor.'

The Professor prided himself on being the prototypical eternal student: bachelor's in seven subjects, masters in six, two PhDs, and working on his third. He supported himself by writing essays, term papers, and theses. He had recently completed a doctoral dissertation for an octogenarian fulfilling a lifelong dream before death beckoned.

The Professor reveled in helping needy students. "You must be needy, not lazy," he would declare to inquirers. If he thought a student lazy, he would dismiss them immediately. "I have no sympathy for lazy," he would declare. He could work up an essay in two to three hours for twenty dollars; a term paper in two days, guaranteed, for a reasonable fifty dollars; a thesis in two to four weeks, for a hundred or two hundred. The lone dissertation took five months, with a hefty fee of two grand.

What kept Peter returning to this secret den was The Professor's willingness to provide cheap beer to weary, frustrated students. At times, students would give him a 'tip,' as he liked to call the gesture, of a six-pack or two. The Professor would then collect reasonable donations from underage drinkers. "No ID needed here," he'd whisper to new customers.

The Professor warmly welcomed Peter's friend – well, his acquaintance, but The Professor would not have understood that. He wore a sweater vest and a narrow, out-of-date tie. Not once had he ever been seen without his tie, though he was known to wear a bowtie on rare occasions. He delicately held his favorite meerschaum pipe in his left hand, leaving his right hand to gesture as he talked. The smell of the pipe tobacco perpetually filled the house with a sweet, slightly piquant aroma.

He took Chad's hand and gave it one quick shake. "Pleased to meet you. What is it you are studying, Chadworth? Or is it Chadwick?"

Chad held in a smirk and replied, "Chadwick, if you must know. Psychology, at least this month."

"Oh yes, yes. Chadwick. Yes. Psychology. On the second floor, you'll find what you need. The west wall. When you need anything, please let me know. I will be so glad to help. Would you care for a cold beer?" The Professor spoke with short, concise sentences, each ending with a quick breath as he prepared to give birth to a new one.

After The Professor slipped into the kitchen, Peter whispered, "He likes people to come and spend time here. Between you and me, I think he likes being needed, but he can only stand a few minutes of human contact at a time. He rarely goes out, and then only to classes. He'll give generous discounts for running errands for him. Boy, that helped me last year." Peter paused, shook his head slowly, "Sometimes I admire The Professor and think I'd like that kind of life, but other times I... well, I sort of pity him. Such a waste of a gifted life."

As Peter made that last statement, Chad contorted his mouth in a peculiar manner, which caused Peter's face to turn a rosy hue.

The Professor brought two six-packs and handed them to Peter. "Don't worry. Don't worry. No donation needed." With that, The Professor retired to the study to continue working on his commissioned projects.

With refreshments in hand, they went up to the attic.

***

The attic was a wonderfully secluded hideaway for The Professor's more favored customers – a place to escape and do some late night cramming. Though many went to just melt into the beanbags, guzzle cheap beer, and discuss the world's problems or, more often, to forget about the world around them.

Coors was on tap that particular evening. As they took their first sips, both declared they preferred Bud.

Chad laughed and said, "There's one thing we have in common."

"Probably the only." Peter said as he lifted his can, inviting a superficial toast.

"Your cold better?" Chad asked and quickly subdued a chuckle.

"Riggght," Peter said, with a look that stated clear and simply, _Do not go there_.

There was a moment of silence as Chad finished off his first can, and then he began to chatter about football again. Peter wanted to tell him to shut up and declare such talk as inane and annoying, but instead he handed Chad another beer, waited for him to take a swig, and then began talking about how burnt out and inept his professors were. Chad agreed: another thing they had in common, something they both loved to complain about.

With three beers downed and Peter's inhibitions ebbing, Chad asked, "So, have you always been a hippie?"

Peter tried to glare at Chad, but the alcohol buzz wouldn't let him. He just smiled and said, "You ever hear that you shouldn't judge the book by its cover?"

"My assumption is ... yes, that you carefully chose a cover that would discourage anyone from wanting to pick the book up."

"Bingo."

"So what _is_ in this book?"

Silence. Peter studied Chad's face, trying to detect whether sincerity or impertinence or alcohol – or some concoction of all three – had motivated the question. He wasn't sure, but with alcohol continuing to lower inhibitions, he simply opened the book. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Chad laughed. "Sheer fantasy. That is a train wreck waiting to happen ... a train I'd never get on."

Peter swallowed the last mouthful of his fourth can of beer, looked down at the floor, and allowed the words to come. "The summer after I finished high school, I went on this community service sort of thing, out in Kentucky. A place called Norwood, a little mountain town of about 900. Twelve of us went to fix the place up, remodel old houses so families could have more decent homes, that sort of thing."

Chad interrupted, "Down in hillbilly country? Like the McCoy and Hatfield feuds?"

"They'd take that as an insult. They're not hillbillies. They are _mountain people._ Anyway, I went to the first planning meeting, and there she was – eighteen, about five-four, a sassy twinkle in the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Not so much pretty, I suppose, but cute. Yeah, really cute. She was one of the locals meant to take care of us, keep an eye on us, whatever. Our eyes met. It was weird, strange, like a light switch being flipped ... no, more like a match being lit. No. It was spontaneous combustion. I knew without a doubt she was feeling exactly the same."

"Spontaneous combustion? Trust me when I say that was simply lust doing its work. I speak from great experience."

"Naw, it was a connection, a knowing. Knowing something was going happen – something fine, real fine."

"My God! The train has left the station."

"Love at first sight. It's movie garbage, I know, but that glance, that moment ... well, I just can't explain it. Anyway, not to bore you, we talked, we hit it off. Started with the usual casual stuff. It was great, fantastic. Then... then one day this guy comes up to me and says, 'You better be careful. She has a boyfriend. Lives in the next town. Word will get around. When it does, the shit will hit the fan.'"

"Buyer beware. It was time to cut and run, buddy. Get off the train, Pete!"

"Shoot! It didn't bother me. I knew my instincts were right. I asked her about it, she says, 'Yeah, but it's nothing.' Said she'd wanted to cut it off for a long time. I told her to let me know when she dumped him. She came over the next day and said it was done. Boy, that was it."

"Gaining steam."

"That night we talked late into the night. I walked her home, and we kissed. I know it sounds really, really dumb, but it was like those ridiculous movies, you know, where the fireworks go off? It was like a wave of emotions bursting Hoover Dam. I never experienced anything like that before... or since."

"Orgasmic?"

"Yeah, no, I suppose. Summer went on, the relationship was great, she was great, it was amazing, it was perfect... beyond perfection."

"Full steam ahead. It's too late now."

"So I went home and started my first year at OU. We wrote and we talked. I dreamt of getting married. We began to talk about it. Then... then in the spring, letters got shorter, less... less..."

"Romantic?"

"Well, yeah. Less personal. Then the calls got shorter. My head was tellin' me something had changed, but my damn heart refused to believe it. Spring break came, and I had to see her, so I got some money out of my savings, hopped on a Greyhound and went to Harlen – a dump of a town, but as close as you can get to Norwood. I called her, gonna surprise her... that I was there in Harlen. So she answers and I say, 'I really want to see you _._ ' Before I told her I was in Harlen, and she could come pick me up, she blurts out, 'You'd better sit down.' I thought, _Oh shit!_ 'I'm pregnant,' she said. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm back with—.' 'The asshole,' I said. Then she slowly said, 'I'm really sorry. Peter. We're planning to get married. Don't be...' I hung up."

Peter stopped and opened another beer and gulped half of it before he continued, "I got on the next Greyhound back to Oklahoma. Slept 'til it got to Tulsa. I got off there. I couldn't go home and answer endless questions from my parents, my sisters. I found a Motel 6 and stayed there 'til the next weekend. Went home and lied to my parents, told 'em it was great. Went back to Norman and muddled through the rest of the semester, like a zombie, the goddamn living dead. That's when I found out about The Library and The Professor. He got me through. He felt sorry for me, so he didn't charge much. He must have done about ten or twelve papers for me and gave me plenty of free beer. That's when I stopped shaving... stopped caring." He paused for a moment, leaned back in the beanbag, and poignantly said, "Paul Simon, he summed me up, ' _I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty. I have no need of friendship. Friendship causes pain. It's laughter and it's loving I disdain. I touch no one, and no one touches me._ ' That's me. That's how you found me."

"Geez. So your parents? They still don't know? About Norwood and all that shit?"

"No one. You're the first. It was too humiliating, stupid, painful... just too full of hate and anger. Couldn't give it words. And now, here's the thing, I still just don't give a damn. I mean ... about anything. Chadwick, the world's just a cruel, cruel place, and I can't be bothered with any of it anymore. That's what's in the frigging book. And you're right ... I don't want anybody reading the goddamn thing."

"Poor Pete. Truly, a devastating train wreck. Poor, poor pitiful Pete."

Peter ignored Chad's exaggerated sympathy and spoke with marked lassitude, "I don't know how it was for you. When I was eleven and twelve years old, race riots were on TV all the time – God, it seemed like every night. I was scared to walk by a Black person, couldn't understand why they hated White people so much... and why ... why they were torching their own places. Then... you remember, on the news every night, hearing how many more had died in Vietnam. Every night the body count plastered on the TV screen. You remember that?"

Chad shook his head.

Peter continued, "When I was in junior high, I despised those who were against the war. In high school, I protested the war. Then we pulled out last year, and now it's becoming the hell we were supposed to prevent... the killing fields. Shoot. What's the point of anything? Tell me that? Nixon was an ass. The war was a hideous joke. You tell me – what's right, what's wrong? Life is an illusion. There's no right, no wrong – just the illusions politicians and corporations create. Tell me, Chad, what's worth living for? Tell me, what's worth _dying_ for?"

Chad shrugged.

Peter sighed, "It's all an illusion – a goddamn fucking illusion."

Chad leaned close to Peter's face and with slightly slurred speech said, "If it's an illusion, I think it's a goddamn fucking wonderful illusion."

Peter replied, "Blessed are the illusion dwellers, eh? _"_ He then shook his head quick and hard. "God, I've had way too many beers. I don't mean to be a bore."

"Boring? Somewhat. Depressing? Incredibly. It's time we get back to the dorm. I have enough arsenic to do us both in."

"I suppose it's good to... what would Kingsbury say... have a cathartic moment?"

Chad chuckled. "Well, Carl Rogers would be proud of me for enabling you to move into this new, uh, this new openness to life, encourage your ability to move away from... from defensiveness and the need for... oh, what was it... subception. Whatever the hell that means. Kingsbury and Rogers lost me there. Subception, Subception. Why do shrinks talk out of their asses?"

Peter shook his head. "Yeah, but hell, don't flatter yourself. You know it's just the booze!" He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as far as his neck allowed. He had just revealed a hidden secret no human being west of the Mississippi knew about; he felt emotionally disrobed in front of this stranger. Peter looked Chad straight into his perfect blue eyes and said, "All right, so what about you, frat boy? What's underneath that pretty-boy cheerleader façade of yours?"

Chad winked, "Hey! Don't judge a book by its cover."

"I assume your cover tells it all, but what the hell is a Jersey boy doing cheerleading at OU?"

"The short and brutally honest answer is football. I wanted to go to a school where football is king. It came down to Michigan, Ohio State, Alabama, or Oklahoma. I decided Michigan is too damn cold, and I don't want to be known as a Buckeye. Who the hell names their school team after a nut anyway? So it was between Oklahoma and Alabama. I flipped a coin and here I am. As simple as that. It's been great. Heck, this year, we'll be going to Miami for the Orange Bowl, maybe be playing for the National Championship." Chad laughed and continued, "The cheerleading squad travels free. What could be better than that?"

"Shoot. I don't get the appeal. I mean... really, a cheerleader? A cheerleader? Seriously? Please!"

Chad grew increasingly animated. "Oh, man! It's amazing. Cheering on 70,000 crazy fans! Yeah, what an adrenaline rush! As good as sex... hell, better than sex! It's fantastic."

Peter eyes drew in and his eyebrows twisted, "For the purpose of self-disclosure, I have to say near the top of my twenty most hated and annoying things in life are football and cheerleaders. Now that I know there are such things as male cheerleaders, that has to go the very top of my list. Sorry, I just don't get it. Standing in front of mindless people, jumping up and down, waving your arms around like some stoned robot screaming out utter nonsense about a bunch of guys throwing a ball around. No. I just can't respect that."

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it."

Peter laughed. "I'll never play the fool. I'll leave that up to you."

"And I do appreciate that."

"But surely there's got to be more than football, girls, partying, and road trips. I'd hate to think you're that shallow."

"I am what I am. But you want a story? I'll give you one. My dad, he's a big-shot lawyer in New York. I'm the only kid. Boring you yet? I always lived under my dad's expectations. He wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, or – worse – a dentist. Yuck! Well, my dad's a Harvard guy – to his crusty core. He assumed, of course, that I would be a Harvard man."

Chad stopped and took a slow sip of beer, then continued, "Now we live in Englewood, Englewood Cliffs, to be exact – the American headquarters of Ferrari and Maserati. It's the hallowed home of 4,000 of Jersey's poshest S.O.B.s. I went to an upper-crust private school, ole 'D and E,' Dwight-Englewood, a school full of rich, snotty, entitled, wonna-be farts. My grades were always pretty good, but not quite good enough for the Ivy Halls of Harvard. Dad decided I would go to Princeton, about fifth best in his frigging utopian world. He pulled in a few favors to get me in there. He went to school with the dean of admissions, and that always helps ... as does writing a hefty check. Goddamn Princeton! I hated it. I mean I really hated it! The academics weren't that hard – just too much of it. But it was the campus life that bugged the hell out of me. Too boring, too serious, too posh. I flunked out my first semester, entirely on purpose. So, dad made me work the next semester. I ended up in a steakhouse cleaning tables, mopping floors, and serving up salad with an unrelenting plastic smile."

Chad paused and took a healthy gulp of Coors as he stared out of the attic's diminutive oval window. Peter sensed he was working hard to corral suppressed anger, anger that begged to be set free whenever he thought about the forbidden secrets of his family life.

Chad continued, speaking slowly, "Dad was trying to teach me a lesson, give me a reality check. Then he'd get me back into Princeton. He had already arranged it with his puppets there. All I had to do was to go before some committee and plead my case. I was supposed to feed them some bull-crap about how I hadn't adjusted well, but felt very confident now. I'm sure my dad had already slipped them another impressive check to show our family's love and support for their prestigious and wondrous school."

"So what did you do?"

"I refused to go to their goddamn committee meeting. And that morning, Armageddon broke loose right in our front living room. We got into it like never before. Oh, there'd been words before and Dad had slapped me a few times – lots of times, actually – but this? This was different. I was ready to fight to the death. Words got ugly. I bucked up... he bucked up. Honestly, I have no idea who landed the first punch. When it was over, Dad was in the dining room cabinet. Mom's Royal Dalton china set was shattered, and her engraved Derwent Crystal collection sat in Dad's lap. Dad disappeared for the night, to his firm's apartment in Manhattan."

"And then?"

"The next day, Mom sat me down and asked me what I wanted to do. I told her I needed to get far away. She didn't argue. She knew I had to get out of the shadow of Dad's expectations and out of reach of his wrath. She said she'd talk to him and told me to come up with a plan.

"So here I am. Decision made on football, partying, and low-key academics, and the flip of a coin. I told Mom they have a solid pre-law program just to make it sound sincere, and I told her I'd work to get back to Princeton for graduate studies. _That_ was just a necessary lie to keep the financial aid coming in. So here I am, a Jersey cheerleading boy, enjoying the illusions of life to their full extent. The cover pretty well says it all."

"You and your dad? You talk much?"

Chad's mouth twisted. "Same as always. Curt and to the point. 'Please don't bother me with trivials, son. Can't you see I'm busy? Another time, son. Eff off, son.' Hell. I know orphaned kids who have better fathers than me."

At one a.m., the stairs creaked, and The Professor entered the now-chilly garret and placed two beers on the table. Smoke from his pipe enveloped the room with its pleasant and exotic smell. With a measured smile, he said, "Bedtime for me. Take your time. You know what to do, Peter. Turn the lights out. Exit through the back door. The front door is, of course, bolted. Good to have met you, Chadwick. Yes, very good indeed." With his pipe clenched between his teeth, he turned and went down the stairs.

Peter wanted to dig deeper. He had seen a new female slip into Chad's room about every three or four weeks. "What about... well, what about the chapter on Chad Daley's love life in that book of yours?"

Chad's eye's widened, and half his mouth curled up, "Oh, Peter, the joy of being a cheerleader – with chicks all the time, joking, teasing, flirting. Throwing them around, lifting them over your head, getting quick looks up there. But love life? A disaster! Utter disaster. Life is miserable when I'm not in a relationship and miserable when I am. Explain that to me. When I'm without the superficial love of some female, I'm bored, scared, lost. I feel like crap. So I latch on to someone, and it's great. I'm happy, satisfied, content as hell. That will last for about four weeks. Then, without fail, I start feeling trapped, smothered, inadequate, scared, lonely, and depressed. Like clockwork, the apology comes. 'Chad, I'm really, really sorry. It's not you, it's me, but I don't think this is going to work out. It was fun, Chad. See you around, Chad.' That speech frees me. It cuts a tight noose right off my neck, and I can breathe again. But at the same moment, a dreaded abyss begins to grow in the pit of my stomach. I've started betting myself how long each new chick will last. I'm betting on five weeks for Jen. Let's see, it's been—"

"Three weeks."

"Damn, you're observant! That is a bit scary. But, yeah, about two more weeks. I think I can make that."

Peter, emboldened by alcohol and his Southern drawl taking hold, said, "Sounds to me like you just need to be single for a while, to find yourself. Be happy with who you are. Be content without having to have anyone else around. If you can do that, you'll be ready for a relationship."

"Really? That must mean you'll be waiting for eternity. Here's the man that makes Eeyore look like a raving optimist giving me advice. I wonder how long it will take for you to be so happy with who you are."

"That's why I am not looking for anyone," Peter retorted. He began to feel it was time to go back to the dorm and let his inhibition level – and his blood alcohol level – return to safe mode. "Hey, I've had enough of the tearing off the scabs of wounded souls. We'd better head back to the dorm before we sober up."

***

Nights at The Library continued, and the accidental friendship took root and grew steadily. Neither would have admitted to it, and both protested adamantly when someone noted that they seemed to be the best of friends. After all, Chad was still a stuck-up, entitled, irritatingly superficial cheerleader from the posh end of Jersey. Peter remained a has-been hippie from hick Oklahoma, selfishly wallowing in the mire of his self-imposed misery.

They could not have known that this unlikely friendship would reshape and redirect who they were and who they would become. This friendship would be tested, refined, and threatened – it would face death and cry out for life. If they had known what lay ahead in the months and years to come, both the cheerleader and the hippie would have fled, quickly and swiftly, from this accidental friendship.

CHAPTER 3

A Foreigner Arrives

Chad sneaked a six-pack into Peter's room, and they reported on their summer vacations.

Peter had little to say about his summer. "It started. Now it's over. That's about it."

Peter, as he had since he was thirteen years old, worked maintenance on his dad's rental properties scattered around the eastside of Oklahoma City. Oklahoma summer's blazing, merciless sun made every day a cruel endurance test. Each day was an unbearable descent into the depths of hell itself – painting, yard work, and the remodeling of abused rental houses in sweltering, hundred-degree heat. Even worse was cleaning the houses ravaged by lowlife human beings who, under the cover of night, would vacate the premises without a thought about unpaid rent. Inevitably, these families would leave behind piles of dog feces, heaps of dirty diapers, tons of garbage, and at least a million roaches.

Years ago, Peter had stopped wondering how people could create such squalor and how they developed the ability not to care how they or their children lived. Somehow, despite daily frustration and anger, that father of his always believed the next family would be different from the previous tenants. Peter sometimes admired this unconditional faith in humanity, but more often he felt angry that his dad remained eternally gullible.

When pushed, Peter told Chad he painted houses all summer and left it at that. After his summery, he listened to Chad complain about his summer job as a lifeguard, and then, the dreaded question came.

"Girlfriend? Any interesting dates? Huh? Did you get any? Eh?"

"No, no and no. No dates, no nothing," Peter said and then awaited Chad's incredulous response.

Chad finished his second beer and nearly shouted, "Geez! How did you manage that? No chicks at all? I couldn't survive! Man, how do you do that?"

Peter forced a smile and feigned nonchalance. "I survived just fine, just fine. I don't have to have someone. Unlike some. And you?"

"Hey, just one – the usual one."

"Poor Natalie." Often after his fourth or fifth beer, Chad would talk fondly about his first high school flame, which he tended to retreat to after playing the field during the school year. "Why and how does she put up with you?"

Chad nodded and grinned. "Natalie loves me. She understands me."

Peter leaned toward Chad, and with a slight sneer said, "How is it you can go back home and get back with her just like that? She must resent being your summer fling. How can any decent, self-respecting female put up with that? With the likes of you?"

"Same way I put up with her. It's just an understanding we have."

Peter shook his head. "C'mon! Surely, she's not like you. Surely, she's not bouncing from guy to guy every three weeks. You always described her as so sweet, so innocent. I didn't picture her like... well, being like you."

"She, Peter, is as sweet as they come. And to be honest... well let's just say, what one does not know cannot disappoint or disillusion them."

Peter put on a disapproving glower meant to chastise. "Oh my God! You are more of creep than I thought. How can you treat someone like that? Use her like that?"

"Geez, man! Quit with the guilt trip. I had a good summer. I love her in my way, and she loves me in hers. It works fine. Someday she'll move on and someday I will move on. Until then, it's a summer love that is now in hibernation."

"How do you live with yourself?"

"I could ask you the same, Mr. Can't-get-no-satisfaction, but I won't."

Peter laughed, finished his can of beer, and said, "And your dear dad? How'd that go?"

The flash in Chad's eyes said more than words ever could.

"That horrific?"

Chad grabbed two beers and leaned back on the bed. He threw one beer to Peter, opened his can, and said, "Worse than you can imagine. Fights every day, over nothing, always over squat." Chad finished the can in three gulps. He went on, "I can put the garbage bin two inches too far over in the garage, and he'll go ballistic, screaming that he couldn't get his Cadillac in its hallowed spot. He screams when I sleep too late, shouts when I leave a glass in the sink, curses me when I sit in his recliner. You know, before I left, I purposely opened my car door hard into his Caddy and left a beauty of a dent. I was disappointed he didn't see it before I left. I'm waiting for him to call me at any moment and cuss me out, declaring how incorrigible and hopeless I am." Chad paused and spoke slowly, "No blows landed. Maybe that makes it a _decent_ summer."

Chad looked through Peter's sparse collection of eight-track tapes as he declared how infinitely superior vinyl LPs were and promised that eight-tracks were doomed to extinction. He read off the titles, each said with increasing and exaggerated shock, "Bob Dylan, Joan Biaz, Judy Collins, Simon and Garfunkel. Oh my God! Peter, Paul and Mary? And who is this? Wagner? And this? Shostakovich? Who the hell are they? Are you still wallowing in your Sartre phase or what? It's high time you got into some good ole rock 'n' roll, pal. Get those endorphins of yours going. How can I ever respect a man whose has every Simon and Garfunkel album and whose favorite song is 'I Am a Rock'?"

"Right, and how can I justify wasting my precious time with a _supposed_ man whose most beloved band is Led Zeppelin and his signature song is 'We're Gonna Grove'? Answer me that?"

Banality filled the air. Both felt relief to leave summer behind and escape back to the false reality of young men pretending they owned the world.

Chad asked, "Shall we visit The Professor tonight?"

As Peter said, "Sure," a voice came from the next room. The voice sounded odd, foreign. "You hear that?"

It was a strange voice, someone introducing himself to Allen. Dear Allen, how they had missed him: The dorm's most beloved nerd, the one college student who dared to admit to being a virgin, the one heartless students would continually mock without poor Allen even realizing it.

"Maybe he's from Boston... no...," Peter guessed.

"Maybe Canada. No, wait ..." Chad put his ear to the wall. "Nope, he's English, a Brit. Definitely a damn limey. What's he doing here? Didn't we kick their asses in like 1783 or something?"

They heard the stranger with the intriguing accent say, "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Allen. A pleasure indeed," Before Allen's door shut.

Peter said, "We know what Allen's up to now. He'll be thumbing through his collection of comic books, and we'll soon hear his eight-track endlessly playing that soundtrack of _2001: A Space Odyssey_."

A knock on Peter's door instinctively set the two in motion. In one swoop, all beer cans, empty and full, disappeared. Peter opened the door. There stood a man, somewhat short, slightly overweight, with a bit of a round face. A soft bronze complexion complemented his light brown hair that he carefully combed over to hide a newly receding hairline. The stranger spoke in a smooth, refined accent, with politely raised inflections at the end of sentences. "Hello. I am Simon Taylor. Just wanting to introduce myself. I shall be living in the room at the end of the corridor," he said, pointing toward the end of the hallway.

Simon's friendly greeting was the sort usually heard at the start of a new school year by raw freshmen. However, no freshmen would dare knock on a stranger's door, as this was a breach of sacred (albeit unspoken) campus etiquette.

Peter stood motionless, looking a bit stunned. Had this been a clueless freshman, he would simply have shut the door. However, he knew he could not do that to this man from some faraway foreign land, one who obviously would not understand an American's religious regard for privacy. "Um... Yeah. Peter, I'm Peter. This is Chad, but don't mind him. He's from New Jersey. He can't help himself. "

The stranger stretched his hand out and gave firm and slightly prolonged handshakes – another breach of protocol that would be ignored.

"Let me guess. Don't tell me. You're English, right?" Chad said.

Simon laughed, "English? No indeed!"

"Irish then?" Peter responded.

Simon shook his head.

"Okay. Scottish?"

Simon said, "Nooo." One would think this stranger would have already tired of playing the game, as no doubt every time he opened his mouth in the States, people tried to guess where he might be from. Simon showed no annoyance though. Rather, he enticed them further into this guessing charade. "Not even close yet."

Chad said, "Got to be New Zealand, then."

"You're getting slightly warmer, bru."

Peter declared with confidence, "Ah! Australia! Of course."

Simon shook his head.

Chad said. "I give up. Don't have a clue."

"South Africa. I am from South Africa."

Chad shook his head and bit his lower lip as he tried to picture the African continent, "Okay, but what country in southern Africa? That could be lots of places."

Simon laughed again and patiently stated, "South Africa _is_ a country – the Republic of South Africa, the southernmost nation on the continent. Originally, I am from Cape Town, where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic."

Peter and Chad both shrugged their shoulders.

Chad said, "Shoot! I always knew that geography teacher of mine was a dud. Kenya, Uganda, the Congo, Rhodesia ... I have heard of those, though I couldn't tell you where they are. I'm afraid my knowledge of the Dark Continent is very... well, dark."

Peter responded apologetically. "Simon, I think you'll find Americans can be pretty... uh—"

"Provincial?" the foreigner interjected, offering some help.

"Well yes. That's putting it politely. I was thinking that we're just plain dumb."

"Ignorant. I would say ignorant. Provincial? Yeah, that's true. We don't look far beyond our shores, and it's even worse in Oklahoma. Most have never been the other side of the Red River. Peter didn't know Kansas existed until he saw _The Wizard of Oz_."

Peter said, "Chad's a master of exaggeration, but there is a bit of truth in that... well, not the Kansas bit. Sorry to say it, but we tend to assume the center of world is the USA."

"I suppose most countries feel that way," Simon politely stated.

"How did you find your way to... to Oklahoma, of all places?" Chad asked with a laugh.

"I'm on an exchange program with the University of Cape Town and the University of Oklahoma. I'm spending a year in the engineering program here."

Peter and Chad bombarded Simon with questions just to hear him speak. They asked him about his impressions of America and Oklahoma. Simon talked with excitement about his first two weeks in America. He had made stops in New York and Chicago and made the comment, "I was amazed how friendly everyone one was in New York City and in Chicago. Everyone was so nice and helpful. It's been a treat."

Chad stopped him, "Hey, wait. No, that could not be right. You've got your cities mixed up. New York, Chicago. Damn! They have some of the rudest human beings in all of the world, never mind America."

"Oh? Well, that was most certainly not my experience," Simon replied with some surprise in his tone.

Wanting to enjoy this refined accent and learn more of this foreigner's tales of a strange and unknown land, they invited Simon to join them at The Library that evening. There, he stirred their imaginations with vivid pictures of his homeland's beauty, describing its varied landscape: from mountains to seas and beaches to world-class cities to wildlife refuges. They were intrigued as he spoke with pride about the diverse cultures of his nation, explaining the complexity of the Dutch and English settlers who fought for control for two centuries while living amongst dozens of tribal peoples of African descent.

Endless evenings at The Library followed. Simon continued to stir visions of a land so far away, so different, so otherworldly; visions that intrigued and stirred. These evenings became moments of escape, moments that seemed to offer hope, though neither was sure what the essence of this hope might be.

***

Several weeks after their first meeting, they learned Simon would turn thirty on his next birthday. He _was_ indeed the old man of the dormitory. Chad began calling him 'Ole Bean,' which others in the dorm soon adopted. Simon did not seem to mind, taking this as a sign of acceptance of the old man from a faraway world.

Simon Taylor carried himself as a proper gentleman. He exuded a quiet pride that invited, if not demanded, respect from others. At the same time, there was a refreshing air of simplicity about him. He was an individual who, although wise beyond his years, was able to share his wisdom in a clear and simple manner – a manner, which caused one to wonder how he or she had missed such obvious truths.

Simon learned from his new friends as well. With keen curiosity, mixed with childlike eagerness, he asked probing questions about America, its culture, and its history. Chad and Peter did their best to satisfy his curiosity but both felt they revealed more ignorance of their own country than they had imagined they possessed.

Peter introduced Simon and Chad to snippets of Western culture. They took a day trip to the Indian City in Anadarko and had lunch in an authentic Kiowa teepee. At the Cowboy Hall of Fame, Simon bought a Charles Russell print, _Cowboy Roping a Steer_ , which he sent home to his father. Three times, they drove fifty miles to eat buffalo burgers at The Cherokee Trading Post on Route 66, near El Reno.

One night, the sort of night that comes when college students' common sense is numbed by either too much studying or too much alcohol, Peter took them to pastures west of a town aptly named Slaughtersville and introduced them to cow tipping, a sport clearly created by bored and, likely intoxicated, country youth. It involves sneaking up on sleeping cows and pushing them over. It was an adventure Chad and Simon would reminisce and laugh about for years to come.

Chad made sure Simon and even Peter attended some football games to watch his beloved National Championship Sooners. Simon enjoyed America's version of football although he was always quick to explain that ' _real_ football' is what Americans, for some unknown reason, insist on calling 'soccer.' American football reminded Simon of his favorite sport, rugby. He was as obsessed with rugby as Chad was with football and often bragged about the South African national team, the Springboks.

When Simon first witnessed Chad perform as a cheerleader, he was shocked and awed. He laughed through most of the game, keeping his eyes fixed on Chad waving his arms about, throwing girls high into the air, and performing back flips in sequence with the other cheerleaders, all to the tune of loud music coming from the band. After that first game, Simon rushed up to Chad to share his enthusiasm and found that Chad could hardly speak. Chad whispered that his exhausted larynx proved he had fulfilled his role in working the crowd into a frenzy.

Peter endured the tedium of the four-hour games with feigned politeness; however, the experience simply reinforced his distaste for the barbaric sport and the ludicrousness of cheerleading.

***

Over the next few months, the three spent countless lost hours at The Library, downing beers while exploring life's absurdities, delving into politics and philosophy, and debating Simon's favorite subject, theology. Both Chad and Peter constantly questioned Simon about doctrines they knew next to nothing about: predestination, universal salvation, theodicy, and the cosmological evidence for the existence of God. Simon presented clear and logical arguments that the two Americans would vehemently disagree with simply to see him flush with frustration. For Chad and Peter, these assignations offered benign entertainment, always bolstered by the increasing buzz of the next beer.

Simon embraced the challenge of provoking his new friends to deeper thought. He feared that potential was slipping away, and that confusion was taking root and skewing any sense of direction and purpose. He saw two young men drifting toward dreary wastelands, two souls lacking faith in themselves and unknowingly desperate for faith in something more. He often told them in passing, "I worry about you two. I do." Neither Peter nor Chad dared to ask Simon what he meant by that statement, which would come unexpectedly in any place or time.

One evening at The Library, before the first beer was opened, Simon said, "I am worried about you two fellows. Let me ask you this... and let's get past the nonsense –what does faith mean to you? What is it you really believe?"

Both shrugged their shoulders and looked at each other.

Peter finally said, "I believe God is there. I believe Jesus cares or whatever. I just don't see it."

Chad said, "God is great, God is good, so great and so good He kind of scares the hell out of me."

Simon smiled and asked, "Why's that, Chad?"

Chad opened his can of beer, started to take a sip, then set it down. He said, "I was raised in a Lutheran church. Oh, how they love their canticles, elaborate liturgies, and long, pointless sermons. I always felt their God is both heartlessly aloof and so very demanding. In my last year in high school, I decided not worry too much about church or if I'm honest about their God, or God in general. Oh, I still believe. We all have to believe in something. Right?"

Simon said, "So you've opted for a superficial and shallow faith?"

Chad nodded and said, "That suits me just fine. And what about you, Peter? It's your turn. What do you mean, you just don't see it?"

Peter laughed and then looked at his two friends, who seemed to be gazing at him with keen anticipation. He cleared his throat and said, "I grew up Southern Baptist, a denomination that reigns supreme in Oklahoma. Baptists tend to pride themselves in being Baptist more than being Christian. When I was about sixteen, I started to feel that the church just emphasized indoctrination – you had better believe the right thing, in the right way, or else. The God of the Baptist, I've always felt, is rather intrusive. You know? I mean, He is always there, looking over your shoulder, keeping an eye on you, reminding you that you'll never be good enough. To be honest, when I began college, I decided this God was rather disagreeable... just too hard to please. But whatever God – He, She, or It is like, I reckon He forgot about me long ago and is too busy attending to much more important souls around the universe than the likes of me." Peter stopped, stood up and walked to the attic's oval window. Staring out at trees being pushed around by the Oklahoma wind, he said, "I know it's ridiculous, but I'm a bit angry with God for allowing the world to become such a disillusioning place and for letting me get so frigging disillusioned." He paused and turned around, "Why we talking about this, Simon? I think it's a good night to go cow tipping."
CHAPTER 4

The Ridiculous, Alluring Invitation

"Come to South Africa. You two could take a year off university and spend it getting a different kind of education." Simon's invitation came on a cold February evening as they enjoyed a cheap bottle of wine that The Professor had left for them in the attic hideaway.

Chad's response was immediate. "That's a ridiculous idea, but an intriguing proposition. Sign me up."

Peter chuckled. He looked into Simon's eyes. "You're not serious... are you?"

"Just a thought," Simon said. "But a serious one."

"It's a crazy thought," Peter said, shaking his head with a dismissive smile.

Chad replied, "It's cool. Why not? People take a year off college all the time. You know, broaden their horizons. Are you really serious?"

"Indeed," Simon said without a hint of a grin.

Chad turned to Peter. "It's a great idea. You can do it. Your sister went to Lebanon... Beirut. You always said you wanted to do something like that. So here's your chance, Peter. Why not?"

Peter replied, "Why not? Why not? Because you just don't do things like that. It changes your life. I don't need that. But thanks for thinking about us."

Leaning near Peter's face, Chad said, "A change is exactly what you need. The truth is, you're afraid to do anything with your life. This is what you need, Pete."

Peter pulled away from Chad, rolled his eyes. "Speak for yourself. What would we do anyway? We can't just go waltzing into a foreign country and loaf around for a whole year."

Simon laughed. "There is plenty you fellows could do. Details can be worked out."

Chad had The Professor bring up all the books on the subject that he had. He managed to find fourteen of them, all with maps, pictures, and endless information about South Africa. Simon found dozens of pictures: the Johannesburg skyline; stunning views of Table Mountain and Cape Town; rolling beaches near Durban; wildlife in Kruger National Park; Drakensburg's rugged and forbidding mountains; and the hills overlooking Pretoria. Simon painted an intriguing and titillating adventure – a journey no normal, sane American would think about, let alone undertake.

Chad closed the last book and declared, "I'm going. How about you, Pete?"

"Heck no. But what would we do for a year?" Peter inquired.

"This idea, this invitation, is not without thought, Peter. My dad's church, it could use a few extra hands. You could do some work there. He would appreciate such help – assistance with the youth groups, planning youth camps, retreats. Enough to keep you busy. And while you're there, you'd have plenty of time to see and do many things."

"That would work." Chad said. "I can do that. I don't have to preach or anything, do I? Just play games with kids, right?"

"A little more than that, Chad."

"Well, whatever. I can handle it."

Simon turned to Peter. "Think it over. It would be an opportunity."

"I know," Peter said slowly and then asked, "Wait, what about the kids we'd be helping with? Do they speak English or what?"

"Of course they do! It is an English church. Presbyterian." Simon paused and pointed his finger gently toward Peter. "It would push you a bit, Peter, help you build some confidence."

Peter blurted out every question he could think of. He stopped drinking, hoping to clear his brain so he could think more clearly about the ridiculous notion. The more they continued to talk, the more alluring the proposition grew. The invitation became magnetic. Just after two o'clock in the morning, Peter declared, "Let's go! Why not?"

***

The evenings that followed went beyond the dreams; ideas developed into specific plans. _We can_ evolved into _we will_.

One obstacle remained, however. Peter and Chad knew their parents would laugh at the idea. They would baulk, promptly declare _"No way,"_ and then find a thousand reasons their sons' foolish idea was the most ridiculous and impossible thing they'd ever heard.

Spring break came, the time of reckoning. As he traveled home, Chad felt like a suitor going to ask a father for his daughter's hand in marriage. Though the overprotective and possessive patriarch would likely say no, Chad would still go through with it, because he was hopelessly, madly, insanely set on the idea; he knew it was meant to be.

Despite his forced and polite pretense, Chad had long ago disowned his father, Patrick. He couldn't have cared less what the man thought or said. The only thing he needed and wanted was his mother's blessing.

His mother, Lucinda, was a provincial girl, New Jersey born and bred. She had been schooled, married, and raised her only child within the confines of a thirty-mile radius. Her boy going off to Africa? He knew what her response would be: " _What are you talking about?_ _What are you trying to do to me? Are you out of your mind?"_

He devised a well-thought-out plan. He would allow her to get used to the idea by dropping harmless and veiled hints, then later present her with his intention and his plan to spend a year in the southernmost tip of the Dark Continent.

His veiled hints were innocently thrown out over the first few days home: "I met a guy from Africa." "It'd sure be wild to go to somewhere like South Africa." "Maybe I need a year off school." "Did I tell you about this friend I met from Africa? South Africa sounds like an amazing place."

After breakfast on Tuesday, Chad braced himself for the worst: tears, panic attacks, or maybe even a nervous breakdown. He then confidently, firmly, and quickly stated, "Mom, I'm thinking of taking a year off college. Simon asked me to go to South Africa and stay with him, see the country. He says I can do some work at a church his dad runs. It'll be a great educational experience, Mom – an opportunity that will never come again." He smiled and looked confidently into his mother's eyes.

Lucinda's pupils enlarged, and her brow furrowed. In a soft, yet extremely firm manner, she said, "What? There is no way in hell you are about to quit school and do such a thing, such a... a crazy thing."

Chad's mom saved _that_ four-letter word for major rows with dad. He held his confident expression and said, "It is a real opportunity for me, Mom. Just think about it."

"And what do you think your father would say to such a venture?" she asked in a near whisper.

"I don't care. I just want you to be open... to just think about it." He said no more. He would allow the possibility to simmer in her head for a day or two and then begin mentioning details about their plans, express his excitement, and declare his confidence that it was the right thing.

In the car on the way to the airport, she looked over to Chad and said calmly, "You know your dad won't approve. You know he will not support this idea of yours in any way."

Chad did not care about that. All that mattered was that mom had given her reluctant, begrudging acceptance of the inevitable, and she did it without a breakdown. That was more than he had hoped for.

Peter's mission was less daunting. His two sisters had ventured forth in unorthodox adventures, so he was confident his parents would be open to the idea. One sister spent six months in the Yucatan Peninsula working in a small village with a group of missionaries who were translating the Bible into the native dialect. The other sister lived in Beirut, Lebanon, for a year, studying at the American University of Beirut, during a time when the country was in full-fledged civil war. Adventure seemed to run through their children's blood.

Peter's parents were surprised but not shocked, concerned but not vexed. _Perhaps_ , Peter thought, _they feel it is what I need to get my life and heart back on track_. Peter related the details of their plans with as much confidence and conviction as he could command.

His father listened, asked several questions, and then said, "I'm just afraid you won't finish your degree if you take a year off, son."

"Oh, I'll finish it, Dad. You don't have to worry about that. That'll not be a problem at all."

***

Chad and Peter returned from spring break with the realization that the wheels, already spinning, would not be stopped. Plans turned to action: Passports were obtained, visas were applied for, an itinerary was developed, and inoculations were taken. The idea, the dream, was becoming reality.

When summer arrived, Simon returned to South Africa, while Chad and Peter retreated to their respective homes and summer jobs. It was the epitome of the endless summer.

On June 24, Peter called Chad. Have you been listening to the news? What the hell is going on in South Africa? Sounds like the whole country's burning, engulfed in riots, on the brink of war. We better cancel. Can we get our money back? Refund our tickets?

"Oh, c'mon, Peter. You're not backing out now, are you?"

Peter muttered into the phone, "I might. You really wanna go to place like that?"

"Well, sure! All the more exciting. Anyway, if you're so worried about it, call Simon and find out what's going on. I'm not going to worry about it."

On June 25, Peter called Simon and pummeled him with questions. "Is it safe, Simon? It sounds bad. What's going on? Should we really be coming?"

Simon's response declared confidence. "Oh, certainly you should. I assure you, life goes on as usual here. There is no problem whatsoever. Indeed, things are safe, Peter. You need not be concerned. Hurry and get yourselves over here. There is a lot to do."

Peter relayed the firsthand report to Chad that all was well in Simon's homeland.

"See? I told you so. Man, September can't get here soon enough."

***

Summer ended, and as the gods of academia predestined, students returned and classes began – without Peter and Chad.

Peter flew to Newark and stayed the weekend in Englewood with Chad and his parents. On Monday, September 6, with passports, visas, and tickets in hand, they boarded their flight at JFK Airport and flew to London, arriving on September 7 at six fifteen a.m. GMT. Their layover allowed enough time to walk the streets of London, witness the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and catch a nap in Hyde Park.

That evening, the two caught a flight to Rome and slept in the airport lounge. Wednesday morning, they strolled around the ancient ruins of Rome, explored the coliseum, and crashed on a bench in front of the Sistine Chapel. At seven fifteen p.m., they boarded a South African Airways 747, on their way to Johannesburg, South Africa.

***

Africa held the promise of changed hearts, minds, and souls. This Africa would offer renewed hope and the possibility of love. It would define their destinies. Yet, at any moment, this Africa could just as surely rob them of hope, love, and destiny. Chad and Peter were to be tested and refined in ways they dare not imagine. Both would be broken – in ways that would render mending nearly impossible.

However, as the plane landed on African soil that September morning, anticipation and excitement ruled their hearts and filled their souls.
PART II

SEPTEMBER 1976 - JANUARY 1977

CHAPTER 5

Africa, September 9, 1976

After fifty-four hours and two lengthy layovers, they landed at Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg on September 9, 1976. It was ten fifty a.m. in South African time but an early three fifty a.m. back in The Sooner State.

Simon and his friend Steve greeted the weary but adrenaline-fueled travelers with enthusiasm. With luggage jammed into the boot (which Chad and Peter knew as the trunk) of Simon's Ford Cortina, they continued their journey: a forty-mile trip to Vanderbijlpark, their home for the next year.

Simon introduced Steve Cherry, one of the leaders in the church's youth group. He indicated he would be helping them settle into their roles at the church. Though Steve was a young adult at eighteen, he could have easily passed for fourteen. His slight frame would have led some to believe he had been grossly underfed and never exercised a day in his life.

Steve talked incessantly and quickly, as one determined and anxious to give his words life. He spewed out questions, giving no time for the two Americans to respond. "How was your trip? How long was the flight? I'm going to the States someday. It's great to have some Americans here. We have plenty of Europeans, English, and Aussies, but very few of you Americans. What's America like? I really want to go there. What are you reading at uni? I plan to do nursing, perhaps pre-med. How long did you say your trip was again?"

Steve's South African accent brought a startling and strange realization to both Chad and Peter: They were now on the other side of the globe ... in Africa.

The drive to Vanderbijlpark took them south, around the outskirts of Johannesburg, and into the countryside of the Transvaal. Flat, arid, and brown terrain surrounded them.

"This could be western Oklahoma in late fall," Peter mused out loud.

Simon laughed and nodded.

Peter leaned toward the open window and took a slow, deliberate breath. The air was fresh, somehow unfamiliar, foreign. It had a distinct scent, even a unique feel that evoked a new, indefinable sensation. _There sure is a different_ _texture to this world,_ he thought. With the wind beating his hair and filling his lungs, he felt a new, exciting world was welcoming him home. It was a sensation reached the core of his being.

Steve exclaimed, "There!" Peter pulled his head back into the car as Steve continued, "There on your right!" He pointed to a complex of countless identical tiny houses that, at a glance, looked like nothing but tin boxes imprisoned behind an endless fence. Steve declared with an odd sense of pride, "That's Soweto!"

"Yes. That's it, gentlemen," Simon added, "South Africa's largest and now most infamous township, Soweto."

Steve said with excitement, "They're probably having riots today. Shall we stop and take a look, Simon? Have a drive through the ole township? See what the restless natives are up to?"

"Looks pretty normal from here," Peter said.

Steve said, "Oh yes. It is Thursday, isn't it? No riots on Thursdays."

Simon laughed. "Yes that's right. Thursday is their day off." Simon then said, "They actually had riots this morning in Johannesburg, the downtown area. But that's of no concern to us. That's a long way from where we're heading."

"So they are still having the riots?" Peter asked. He wanted to ask, _Is this country really safe?_

Simon replied with confidence, "Occasionally there are riots, but they are always very isolated, mainly in a few of the townships. It's nothing we need to worry about, Peter."

Steve gave a serious look and asked with deep concern, "You brought your guns with you, right? Surely, you have. You will need your guns locked and loaded whenever you leave the house." Steve looked at the two, waiting for a response.

They shook their heads, and Chad said, "Guns? You're kidding, right?"

Steve arched his eyebrow in disbelief. "Aye, then you are in trouble for sure. Don't worry though. I shall loan the two of my best rifles." He paused and looked at the panic-stricken stare on Peter's face before he let out a belly laugh.

Simon chuckled, and the two foreigners grinned. Chad slightly blushed.

Peter shook his head. "The reports in the States make it sound like there are riots all over the place."

Chad added, "Yeah. You shoulda heard my mom go on and on about it. She was in tears when I left. I told her you'd keep us safe, Simon. She only cried more."

Simon laughed, and then spoke with an upbeat lilt. "Indeed, I will take good care of you, and I assure you the rioting has died down. These protests will not last much longer, and any problems are confined to a few of the townships, as I said. Life is as normal as life can be."

"What is a 'township' anyway?" Peter asked, making quote marks in the air as he spoke the term.

"Townships are lands set aside for the Bantus – the Africans, the natives, the Blacks. That's what we are supposed to call them now, Blacks," Steve explained. "Townships are places the Bantus live, but they're scattered all over the country. Soweto is the biggest township. A lot of the Bantus from Soweto go into Jo'berg to work, and lots go to towns like Vanderbijlpark. Most go home at night."

Chad asked, "How many Blacks and Whites are there in South Africa?"

"Hmm... about sixteen million Bantus, a million or so Colored and Indians, and about four million Whites," Steve declared.

Chad said, "If the natives get restless enough, sounds like they could overwhelm you Whites and drive you all straight into the Indian Ocean."

Steve laughed. "That will never happen. Right, Simon?"

"Never say never," Simon replied.

Steve went on, "Riggght. Never. Never. Never." He looked back toward Peter and emphasized, "Never ever!"

"Oh! There's Uncle Charlie's! Simon, we should stop there. I'm starving, and I bet your two American friends are as well."

Simon let out a bit of a moan. "I don't know..."

Chad spoke up. "Hey, I'm exhausted but ravenous as well. Sounds good to me if you want to stop for a bite, Simon."

Simon said, "Very well, but I should warn you... well, there are not many places like this Uncle Charlie's and not many characters as unique as the man the place is named after either." That said, he pulled into an empty car lot.

"A burger, fries, and a Coke sound good to me. And a little local color is always entertaining," Chad said.

Obviously, Uncle Charlie felt no need to impress his patrons or anyone else. His establishment was remarkably unremarkable. Mismatched folding tables and chairs cluttered the large, one-room diner. Its bare walls and floors offered nothing to soothe or to excite one's senses. Certainly, no effort had been expended to entice any diners back. _Maybe the cuisine itself woos people to return,_ Peter hoped, but the vacant parking lot gave no evidence of that.

Uncle Charlie, who they presumed the lone worker to be, (besides the two Blacks mopping the floor), approached their wobbly table. Quite obese, indicating that at least he enjoyed his own food, he grunted as he walked toward his customers, as if each step was a Herculean effort. He spoke with a gruff Afrikaans accent: guttural, sharp, staccato. He took their orders quickly, with a very pronounced don't-bother-me cadence, and headed back to the grill mumbling and grunting.

Simon went over the plans for the next few days. "Have a rest tomorrow. In the evening, we will have a _braaivleis_ with the church people and a few of the neighbors in the area. Saturday, we meet at the church with a few of the youth leaders. Steve will be one of them. You will have an opportunity to brainstorm, discuss ideas they've been thinking about and ideas you have been thinking about and preparing. Sound reasonable?"

Unable to absorb the jumble of words Simon had thrown together, the weary two simply nodded. Simon looked at his friends and nodded back with a pleased smile. This produced a wave of anxiety in Peter, _What the hell am I doing here?_

Chad returned Simon's smile, but his eyes remained fixed on three twenty-something women who had slipped in to buy cigarettes. The burgers, fries, and drinks arrived, with Uncle Charlie doing the honors.

After the first bite of his hamburger, Chad winced and said, "Man, this tastes odd, a little bit like ham. You think they take the name literally or something?"

Peter picked up a French fry, and it fell over, limp. He nearly spewed the fry out of his mouth. "My God! The ketchup... it's like... sweet, and thin as water."

Chad politely asked for ice, hoping to salvage what was a warm Coke. The proprietor again mumbled and grunted his way back to the counter; ice never came.

As they left the diner, Chad said, "You were right, Simon. Hopefully there are not many like Uncle Charlie around."

Peter chuckled and added, "Wow. Our first taste of Africa."

***

They arrived at Simon's hometown, a modest city of about 40,000. Vanderbijlpark remained a quiet and unassuming, old-style South African town. A strong Afrikaner influence permeated the city through its simple architecture and a propensity to name streets after famous Afrikaners. It was indeed a place well isolated from the trouble, which the world portrayed as running rampant in all of South Africa.

Simon's neighborhood looked like those Chad had seen on trips to Florida: stucco, single-story houses, some with green or yellow paint, but mainly white. Most had cozy front yards enclosed by small, friendly fences, and a few had garages. Most homes had friendly gardens, adding some color. The neighborhoods lacked any formidable trees like those that Chad and Peter had grown up climbing in their neighborhoods when they were young.

Simon's rented house was half of a duplex. The neighbors on the other side owned the duplex. They were members at his dad's church and rented it out to Simon for a very reasonable rate. Inside, the house looked more traditional: copper-plated etchings of elephants, giraffes, and zebras were scattered around the walls. Two Springbok hides hung proudly over a small fireplace. A large zebra hide served as a rug in the living room, breaking the monotony of the red tiles that covered the whole of the house. The tiling gave the house an unsettling echo that the newcomers would have to get used to. The bungalow had one, thankfully large, bedroom, and a large den that included a dining area on one side. The tiny kitchenette had room enough for only three people at a time. Though small, modest, and simple, Simon's abode would be a nice place to call home.

Chad plopped himself down on the settee and proclaimed, "Africa! Can you believe it? We're in Africa!"

Peter smiled, nodded, and sat beside him.

Simon went into the kitchen to fix a pot of tea. Chad and Peter promptly fell asleep.
CHAPTER 6

Master, Master

Between the jetlag, the drastic time difference, and their dried up adrenaline, the next morning came too soon for the travelers. Their body clocks could not determine whether it should be ten a.m. or three a.m.

Still exhausted and a bit disoriented, Chad and Peter sat on their beds deciding what should come next when they heard a noise in the kitchen. They quickly threw on some clothes and slowly opened the door.

A soft voice echoed across the tile flooring, "Master?"

Neither responded.

With increased emphasis, the voice again called out, "Master?"

Peter and Chad look at each other, shrugging their shoulders.

A gracious and warm black face, accentuated by an oversized grin, peeked around the door. "Master, would you now want your room to be cleaned? Or, will I prepare a breakfast for you both?"

Peter and Chad sat speechless for a moment before Peter mumbled, "No, no, that's fine. Geez, sorry... hi... hello. I'm Peter, and this is Chad."

"Oh yes, yes. Now, finally, you are here. I am Themba. I will be pleased to fix you a breakfast. Shall I prepare eggs, with perhaps some bacon?"

"No, that's fine. Really," Peter said.

Chad shook off the remains of sleep and said, "Oh yeah! Eggs, some bacon, and toast. That would be terrific. Do we have any orange juice?"

"Yes, yes, Master. That is fine. It shall be very good for you both."

Peter said, "Please, Themba, please don't call us that. I'm Peter and this is Chad. Feel free to call us by our names."

Themba's smile slipped into a guarded grin, and her eyes became puzzled. She nodded as she turned and went back to the kitchen.

"Why would you say that? You upset her." Chad's tone exuded both irritation and embarrassment.

Peter spoke emphatically. "What? Are you serious, Chad? How you could you let someone call you... my God, call you _that_ of all things? It's just not right. It's so ... so wrong."

"Geez, Peter. It's what she's comfortable with. It's not a big deal. You shouldn't make an issue of it. It's not like she's a slave. She's just being polite, like calling you 'sir.'"

Peter went and closed the bedroom door. "It's not the same at all. Absolutely not."

Chad's frustration grew. "It is to her. It's her culture. She was just being respectful, and you made her feel awful."

"It made _me_ feel awful."

Chad started to make his bed. "It's okay. This is Africa. It's not supposed to be like home. Just get used to it." He paused from his bed making for a moment. "Hey, we don't have to make our beds, do we? We have a maid. And you want to complain? My parents had money, but we didn't have a maid. I like it. You need to lighten up, Peter. Relax. God! You make everything so damn difficult."

Peter quickly made his bed. "It really doesn't bother you? It just doesn't seem right to me to have somebody waiting on me hand and foot, picking up after me, and stuff like that – especially calling me 'Master.' It's too strange."

"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto – or Oklahoma, as the case may be. This is Africa, my friend."

"Yeah, you're right. Africa. Wow."

***

The aroma of grilling meat and billowing smoke from burning charcoal greeted Peter and Chad as they walked into the courtyard behind St. Stephens Presbyterian Church. The _braaivleis_ , South Africa's equivalent to America's backyard barbeque, was well underway. Fifty-plus curious individuals, couples and families, had gathered, anxious to welcome and to scrutinize the two young Americans.

Peter closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of smoldering briquettes cooking a variety of marinated meats; he was transported back to barbeques at Lake Eufaula in eastern Oklahoma, when in early autumn, the annual McKnight family reunion was religiously held. He opened his eyes and surveyed the crowd: He felt all eyes focused on him. He took two slow breaths and told himself, _Just pretend to be an extrovert_.

Chad leaned over and whispered in his ear, "You look like you want to run for your life. You're frowning Smile! Don't look so damn miserable."

Peter forced his muscles to pull his mouth upwards. He shadowed Chad as his friend began to float from group to group like a politician buttering up potential voters. He had always envied how Chad was able to mingle so easily, but he was always content to let him take the lead.

They shook what felt like a thousand hands, heard a thousand new names, and had a thousand brisk and redundant conversations: "Pleasure to have you with us. How was your journey? Now, how is it you met Simon? Hope you do enjoy South Africa." Many bragged about their South Africa, ensuring the Americans they were going to love their homeland and insisting, "Once you've been here, you always come back." Most were of English descent, and some were Afrikaans, but none were Black, Colored, or Indian.

As Peter and Chad finished their first taste of the highly touted _boerewors_ and mealie meal, the staple fair of any _braaivleis_ , a couple approached them. The man said, " _Ag lekker man, ja_?"

The two looked at each other and wondered who might translate for them. Peter said, "I'm sorry. We don't speak any Afrikaans."

"It's _lekker_. It's nice. It's very good. The _boerewors_ , ja? This wonderful sausage, and the _braai_ , it's all nice, _lekker_ , eh? Nothing better."

Chad agreed. "Oh yeah, it's very nice. Delicious. It's laker."

"Not 'laker.' _Lekker_. _Lekker_ _man_."

Chad tried again. " _Lekker_ , yes. _Lekker_ , very nice."

The man introduced himself as Johan Van den Berg and continued to brag about the great tradition of the _braaivleis_. His dark brown eyes gleamed as the Americans pronounced approval of this first taste of a true South African treat.

"It's really good. I like it. Best sausage I've ever had. What do you call it? Bow-row-vans?" asked Peter.

Johan laughed, "No, no. Boor-uh-vors... boor-uh-vors."

Chad carefully pronounced the Afrikaans word. "Boor-uh-voooors. Well, I looovers 'em."

Johan smiled. At thirty-eight, he looked much older. His worn face betrayed years spent in the African sun, as well as a lifelong love affair with cigarettes and alcohol. Johan proudly informed them that he worked as a supervisor for the public works department repairing roads across the Transvaal.

Peter remembered that Simon had warned them about a boisterous fellow who could become too friendly, too familiar, particularly at parties; they assumed this was the fellow. Simon also noted that his abounding friendliness was due partially to personality and partially to his proclivity for alcohol in any form. Now, no true Afrikaner would partake of alcohol on church grounds, but topping up beforehand was acceptable.

Peter thought, _obviously, this Johan has had his top up on the way to church_.

Johan introduced his wife, holding her small waist with a tight grip. "This is my Susan, mother of my children and joy of my life, but only on her better days." He released her and slapped her firmly on her bottom.

Susan shook Chad's hand with an indiscernible grasp, then leaned over, and gave him a quick peck on his cheek. She did the same with Peter. Peter and Chad furtively glanced at one another, both giving a very slight shrug of the shoulders. Johan cornered the two boys and began to interrogate them with full force. Susan eased back a step, allowing Johan his space. Susan smiled, occasionally laughing as she watched the three engage.

Johan showed an instantaneous interest in the 'Yanks.' Peter cringed when Johan began arguing with Chad about the superiority of American football over the purity of "the world's only _real_ football, soccer." Peter had to work hard to feign interest; he had a passing urge to declare that he hated football of any version on any continent, as well as just about every sport. He tried to imagine what their response might be if he did blurt out such a statement. He took a half step back and decided to engage Susan in something that did not require balls and half-witted men running around senselessly. He apologetically said, "I'm not much when it comes to sports, I'm afraid. It's like a foreign language to me."

Susan laughed and replied with a polite, understanding nod. "I understand. Johan can indeed be a bore when it comes to his football and that darn rugby of his."

"Oh man, Chad as well. He drives me nuts and never takes the hint that I couldn't care less."

They shared a laugh.

Johan slapped Chad on the back after making an inaudible comment. He then burst into a belly laugh that intruded upon the church crowd and caused heads to snap his way.

Susan blushed and said to Peter, "I am sorry. He does get carried away."

"Oh not at all. He's quite fun. He's certainly hitting it off with Chad."

Susan continued to chat with Peter. She asked about his studies and his family and showed great delight in hearing about Peter's life. In her company, for the first time that afternoon, Peter actually felt relaxed. Susan leaned over and quietly commented, "I do appreciate you bringing a little bit of calm to the buzz of the party. These things do wear me out. Old Johan, he thrives in these situations."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I get exhausted at this kind of thing. But... well, no, I mean this is great. I'm enjoying it."

Susan smiled. "Oh don't apologize, I understand perfectly. Sometimes we just do what we have to do in life."

"Yeah. That's very, very true."

As their separate conversations continued, two young girls appeared. The younger whispered something in Susan's ear. She laughed, then caught herself and gave both girls that knowing look – the look a mother perfects by the time her children become teenagers. It is that look a mother uses to communicate that such things are inappropriate, though she probably agrees with the comment.

Johan grabbed one girl under each arm and proudly introduced his daughters. Lisa had a pale complexion, blemished by a few pimples. With her pigtails and oversized shirt, she looked ten or eleven, though she was fourteen. Sarah's long, dark brown, silky hair complemented her commanding, oversized brown eyes. She wore a tight white tank top shirt that accentuated her tall, genuinely female frame. She could easily pass for drinking age in any bar in the States, though she was only seventeen. A quick "Hello" was enough, and they headed straight back to their respective friends, both giving Susan a wink as they left.

A latecomer joined a dwindling crowd and made his way straight to the two Americans still preoccupied with Johan and Susan. Showing no concern for interrupting their conversations, he grabbed Peter's hand and said, "You must be Peter."

Peter looked at him with a dead stare and offered a feeble nod.

The man then reached for Chad's hand. "Then certainly you must be Chad. Simon has spoken very highly of his Yankee mates. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I am Roger Bell, minister of Grace Presbyterian Church in Johannesburg." Bypassing the expected questions Peter had found so tedious, he went on. "I am thrilled you can join the St. Stephens congregation and share in their work here. I am sure it will be very positive and challenging for the young church, as well as for you both."

Peter nodded again. The man's stature and abruptness intensified Peter's own inadequacy.

Chad put on a confident smile and said, "I know it will be a great year for me. I am looking forward to it. It will be a wonderful experience, no doubt. Now, what's that accent? You're not a countryman of Simon. I would guess you're English. It's that lovely upper-crust, posh accent. I love it."

"I certainly don't think of it as posh, but six year's study at Oxford did rub off. You wouldn't know I grew up in a family of Geordies."

Peter smiled. He assumed the comment was meant to be humorous but had no idea what it meant.

Chad responded, "Oh no, I wouldn't at all."

Roger continued. "I immigrated to South Africa seven years ago. This is my home now." He went on about being instrumental in starting the St. Stephens church five years ago, noting he had been very satisfied with their progress. He then gave a brief history of his own church and bragged about his congregation. Roger's unashamed bragging increasingly agitated Peter. He kept shifting his weight from leg to leg, continually folding and unfolding his arms, not knowing what to do with his hands.

Chad listened intently as Roger went on. Peter knew this interest was purely pretense. Peter tried to tune the man out, but his forceful and full voice commanded attention, and his height was more than intimidating; he stood half a head taller than anyone else in the courtyard. Peter wondered, _How could this guy be a pastor? How could he possibly offer comfort to lost and suffering souls? Those poor parishioners._

Roger's voice, all of sudden, seemed to increase in decibels, causing Peter to jump. "We have many young families and many young in faith. We are all eager to learn and venture into new things. You fellows are to come and visit my church and experience South Africa's most famous city, one of the world's greatest cities."

"If we can. That would be cool." Peter's tone lacked conviction.

Chad said, "We must. That'll be great. What do you South Africans say, _lekker_?"

As Roger meandered through the remaining crowd, giving nods and handshakes as he went, Chad leaned close to Peter and whispered. "Damn limey. Man! He is so full of shit."

Peter chuckled and shook his head in amazement as he watched Roger's head bob above everyone else's. He whispered back to Chad, "Yeah, what an arrogant son of bitch."

As cleanup of the _braai_ began, an older gentleman arrived. He was no doubt kin to Simon: slightly more rotund, considerably grayer, bifocals and rustic wrinkles highlighting brown eyes and a dark complication. It was George, pastor of St. Stephens, Simon's father.

He held up his hands and hushed the remaining two dozen well-fed parishioners, "Unfortunately, I had an emergency visit at hospital. I do apologize. But I see you have indeed enjoyed yourselves and have no doubt given a warm welcome to our American friends." He turned toward Peter and Chad and waved them to come forward. "We have so looked forward to you joining us, sharing in the ministry with us. We anticipate a wonderful contribution from you two." He then offered prayers.

As George strutted to the other side of the courtyard, Peter leaned near Chad and said, "Wonderful contribution? Wonderful contribution?"

Chad patted his shoulder. "No worries, Pete. It'll be a breeze."
CHAPTER 7

Themba, Themba

Peter and Chad had their feet propped on an eight-foot-long table sitting in the far corner of the dimly lit church hall. Sandwiches had been quickly devoured, and they were gearing up for another round of heavy thinking and arduous planning. With his right foot, Peter pushed an empty teapot toward Chad and said, "I do believe it's your turn to make tea."

With his left foot, Chad pushed the teapot back toward the middle of the table, which was cluttered with notepaper and notepads. "If you want tea, you may indeed go fix it."

Chad and Peter had brainstormed the whole of Saturday morning: drawing up a list of ideas, discussing goals, and setting some objectives for the various youth programs in the church.

As they prepared to continue the marathon planning session, Steve, whom they had met the day they arrived, tapped on the window. With a monkey-like grin, he waved at them. A moment later, he came through the door with a young lady by his side. "You two know Sarah, don't you? Don't tell me you started without us! George did say _after_ lunch, didn't he, Sarah?"

"You're fine," Chad said as he got up to greet the two helpers assigned by George to assist them. "We've just been brainstorming – only I think the storm died down hours ago."

Steve said, "Well, look out. Another storm's about to blow in wreaking havoc and mayhem. Did you meet Sarah yet? This is Sarah. She was my first-ever girlfriend when I was ten. I plan to marry her. She knows that and is eagerly waiting for me to get the courage to ask her."

"Shut up, Steve. I met you _okies_ at the _braai_. My dad is Johan. I'm sure you remember him."

"Yeah, of course I remember." Chad had hardly noticed the tall, slender girl at the _braaivleis_. As he shook her hand, he glanced at her face; her dark complexion and oversized brown eyes blended in a stunning manner with her golden brown, shoulder-length hair – hair that glistened like silk and begged to be stroked. Chad wondered how he had missed this one. "Chad. That's Peter."

"I know," she said with a glance into Chad's eyes, which sent an unexpected sensation down his spine. "Shall I fix you _okies_ some tea? We need to get started. I must be home by five."

"Sure," said Peter, "but I wouldn't be calling Chad an Okie. He's from New Jersey. I'm from Oklahoma. I'm the Okie."

Along with Steve, she laughed. "No, no ... _okie_ is ... well, it's a word we use, it... well it means you guys, you people. You _okies_. Nothing to do with... what was it? Oklahoma?" She grabbed the teapot and asked, "Milk? Sugar?"

Chad responded, "Milk, one sugar. Pete just wants milk."

Chad's eyes remained fixed on Sarah as she walked toward the kitchen area in the back of the hall. He leaned toward Peter and whispered, "Damn! She's amazing!"

Peter shook his head and said rather loudly, "Geez! Don't go chasing after the first female you see. Good God, slow down."

Steve laughed and winked at Chad.

Sarah returned with four fresh cups of tea. Chad scrutinized her with his practiced eye; her confident gait, her coy and measured smile, and her curious eyes impressed him. Then their eyes met. Chad feared his face had turned pink, maybe red, for she had caught him scrutinizing her. She smiled. Both held their gaze longer than is socially expected and acceptable at initial meetings. They sipped their tea and began their planning session.

By five p.m., all ideas had been exhausted, and their brain cells cried for mercy.

As Sarah walked out the door, she asked dispassionately, "My parents wanted me to ask if you would be able to join us for dinner tomorrow."

"We're busy tomorrow. What about Monday? Would that work for your parents?" Chad responded in a subdued manner, though a quick rush of blood had filled his head.

"I'm sure it would be fine," Sarah answered as she and Steve got into her mom's yellow VW Beetle. She drove off and gave a brisk glance toward Chad as she shifted into into second gear.

***

Dinner's enticing smell filled the flat as Chad and Peter returned after the eternal meeting. They sat down with Simon for a homemade meal.

Themba glided back and forth from the kitchen, bringing plates of food and various condiments, refilling drinks, and meeting every need and desire. Chad smiled with satisfaction each time she entered the room, and Peter felt uncomfortable every time she left the room. He asked Simon what he knew about his maid.

Simon paused for a moment, then said, "She is Xhosa. Her English is very adequate when you consider that, like many Africans, English is probably her fourth language after Xhosa, Zulu, and Afrikaans. She lives in Alexandra, a township about eighty kilometers north of Jo'berg. I believe she has four, maybe five children there. I don't remember their ages... the youngest is four I think, and the oldest is ten or eleven."

Peter asked, "Good God! Who takes care of them every day? That'd be an awful commute."

"She actually stays here most of the week and goes home on weekends. And I am sure the children are well cared for by their grandmother and plenty of other relatives."

"Where's her husband, the dad?"

"I think she mentioned that he is in a township well north of Pretoria, in Bophuthatswana. I do know he works in Pretoria."

"Wait a minute! That's ridiculous. You're not serious? Why would he live so far away?" Peter's voice vacillated between shock and indignation.

Chad spoke rather curtly. "Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe that works for him. Probably got himself a babe on the side somewhere else."

Simon responded, "Well it is certainly not good for building fidelity among the Bantus. He was probably assigned there. They have no choice in these matters."

Peter clasped his hands on his head. "Assigned? What the hell are you talking about? You mean the government tells the Bantus where they have to live, not giving a flip about their families?"

Simon sighed and shifted his chair. "Peter, it does seem so. I do not understand their reasoning. I don't think anyone does. Still, Themba does not complain. She usually works Tuesday to Friday and goes home on the weekends. Her youngest was ill this week, so she asked if she could get some extra days. That's why she's here for us this weekend."

Themba nodded as she came through to refill their drinks, "Yes, I am very, very fortunate Master Simon helps me this way."

"Yes, thank you Themba. We do appreciate it."

" _Dankie_ , Master," she said as she went to begin the washing up.

"So she stays in Vanderbijlpark. Where does she go every night?"

"No Peter. She stays _here,_ " Simon said, moving his index finger in a circle and pointing to the floor.

"What? Where does she sleep? There's no room _here_." Peter had seen no spare room.

Simon folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, and slowly said, "Themba sleeps in the back room during the week."

"Back room?"

"It is the small room behind the house, between the two flats."

Peter shook his head. "That's horrible."

Simon shook his head and said, "Peter, it is quite cozy."

Peter had noticed the so-called 'back room,' though he would not have called it a room at all. It was outside the back door, an eight-by-six-foot area. He initially assumed it was a shed for garden tools or everyday junk. The door was covered by black drapes, which actually looked more like bedspreads when he looked a bit closer. When he glanced through the window, he had noticed a cot, a small table, three candles, and two buckets. He assumed the children next door used the shed as a playhouse. He was shocked to learn this was Themba's home for four days a week. "You are kidding me! Surely, there's no way someone can sleep... live there. Simon, is this your South African sense of humor?"

Simon's word came out quickly. "She is very comfortable. She has no complaints about it. Peter, this is the situation with many workers. They accept it, and they appreciate it." Simon called out, "Themba!"

She came into the room drying a large pot.

"Your room here, do you have any problems with it? Is there anything you need? Can we make it more comfortable?"

" _Ag nee_." Themba chuckled at the inquiry. "No. Indeed no. _Dankie_ , Master. I am quite happy there. I shall now bring dessert." She returned to the kitchen.

"I just don't get it," mumbled Peter.

Chad blurted out, "Peter, just leave it alone. This is Africa, not America. It's different. It's the way it is. Just forget about it."

Simon then noted, "Themba is better paid than most home workers and treated much better than most. You need not worry about her."

Peter drew in a few slow breaths. He told himself it was not his place to argue about this. This was not his country, and he should not judge the nuances, the protocol, and the expectations of Simon's homeland.

Satisfied from a hearty meal, the flat mates moved to the comfortable chairs on the other side of the room, taking with them fresh cups of tea. Simon turned on his nineteen-inch black and white television.

Chad said, "I still can't believe this country just got television in January. What's up with you South Africans?"

Simon chuckled. "Blame the government. It was the National Party's decision not to allow television for so long. Some say it's because they feared television would corrupt the country's morals. Others might say the reluctance was motivated by a fear that Blacks would be exposed to Western culture and start demanding more power and privilege. But people have gone wild over it. I got this set just to see what it was all about. Quite honestly, I think we were better off without the blasted thing."

Chad laughed and said, "Wow! An entire country, all at once, discovered the joy of television and is already entranced by its seductive nature. I still can't believe there's only one channel. What's on tonight, Afrikaans or English?"

"English."

"Thank God. Isn't that program on that Steve's been raving about? _The New Avengers_ or something?"

"I believe so."

The popular British program had just begun when Themba poked her head in from the kitchen and said, "May I, Master?"

Simon nodded. Themba entered the den and sat in the corner of the room on the floor. She could just see the television from her angle.

Peter and Chad glanced at one another. Chad shrugged his shoulders, and Peter winced. He felt awkward and embarrassed and assumed Themba must feel the same. "Let me get a chair," Peter said.

Simon looked back toward Themba and said, "Oh she's fine, she's fine. Themba, would you prefer a chair?"

"Oh no. That would not be good. This is very fine, _dankie_."

"Not many employers would allow this," Simon said with some pride, "but she enjoys the television, and it helps her to relax before bed."

Themba nodded with a smile as Simon said this.

Peter wanted to insist, " _Please sit here. We'll make room on the sofa,"_ but he said nothing more. He told himself again, _This is Simon's world_.

CHAPTER 8

South Africa's Fears

Peter walked up to the lectern and quickly surveyed the congregation of seventy or so. His mind froze, and his stomach turned inside out. George could have warned them, told them in advance that they would be invited to share in the morning church service. His mind had been wandering when George invited him and Chad to "Come forward and share something about yourselves and your journey here."

He set his gaze toward a lonely stained-glass window above the front door of the modest sanctuary as he waited for words to come and sentences to form, but nothing came. He forced a nervous smile and simply opened his mouth, hoping some words would surface. "I... I'm studying... um... psychology at Oklahoma University. It's exciting to be here and help with your church. I'm looking forward to it. I'm sure it will be great. Just the people I've met already... well this seems to be a special place. Thank you for having us. I hope we can help out." That was the best his brain could produce with no notice; it let him down and mortified him once again. Peter sat down and prayed he would melt into nothingness and never be seen again.

Chad smiled as he walked slowly to the front. He climbed the three steps to the podium, took hold of the top of the lectern, and leaned forward. It was as if he had morphed into a seasoned preacher. In colorful fashion, he described his growing friendship with Simon. He spoke of his burgeoning fascination and intrigue as he had learned about South Africa from Simon over the past year. Then, looking intently from one side of the room to the other, he said, "It's hard to believe, but already I feel very much at home here." He finished by proudly stating he was studying pre-law with plans to be a lawyer and follow in his father's footsteps.

When Chad proclaimed this aspiration to be like his father, Peter's mouth dropped. _What a blatant lie! And in church, nonetheless. At least he didn't embarrass both of us by talking about being a cheerleader._

***

Steve ushered Chad and Peter into his home after the Sunday service. He barked commands to his three younger brothers to "Quiet down!" and introduced the Yanks to his parents, Sharon and Les.

Throughout their three-course meal, the four brothers worked hard to outdo one another in precociousness; each vied for attention, competing fiercely to see which brother could incite the most laughs. Puns, corny jokes, and anecdotes about bizarre friends at school flowed nonstop. Chad added a few jokes of his own.

As the family and guests devoured raspberry Pavlova, Chad looked around the table. He felt tears welling up as he watched this family laughing with one another, enjoying one another. This family, at least on this Sunday afternoon, appeared to be what a family should be – comfortable, relaxed, accepting, and loving. Images of Sunday lunches at his home flashed through Chad's mind: those dreaded after-church lunches where wearing Sunday dress was the only option; where free bantering was forbidden; and where his father would declare war on all Republicans and never invite a second opinion. Chad pushed down the tears that begged for freedom.

Sharon went to prepare coffee, and Les dismissed the three younger boys who eagerly joined a cricket match in the street outside their house.

"It's one of our neighborhood's Sunday traditions," Les declared. In a now-quiet dining room, with coffee cups in hand, Les smiled and asked, "So what do you Americans think about South Africa? The politics I mean. What do you Yanks make of our country so far?"

Peter looked at Chad, who promptly raised his left brow and gave a nod to Peter. _He can damn well speak up for once_.

Peter eventually spoke, though his words barely seeped passed his lips. "Most folks don't pay much attention. I suppose what little they know... well it's apartheid, and no one agrees with that. No one understands it. And... well, you know, most just think things are in chaos over here, with all the rioting being reported."

Steve and Les chuckled.

Peter turned white and looked back to Chad.

"Ohhh, the riotous South Africa," Steve happily declared.

"No. I don't know. I guess some might think that," Peter said apologetically.

Les asked, "What about these so-called riots? What do they think has been happening here?"

Peter looked again at Chad, now with a pitiful gaze in his eyes. Chad despised that look; he was certain Peter used it to manipulate him. Chad caught himself just before he rolled his eyes at Peter. He spoke up, "The news does give a picture of riots everywhere, terrorists wreaking havoc. The reports can be pretty negative. But most Americans – at least those who know anything at all – do support South Africa and are worried about what's going on. They know it's a great country facing some problems."

Les grinned and said, "Heavens! I know the whole world finds apartheid offensive and hates South Africa with a passion."

Chad, determined to remain optimistic, said, "Yes, well... yes. There are lots of questions about it for sure, but there are plenty who support South Africa."

Les continued to push. "And what about you two? You have had a chance to see it firsthand. What do you think so far?"

Chad drew a breath and was about to respond when Peter interrupted. "Apartheid is... well, it's just so wrong. Is it really necessary? It just seems so... so backwards. Apartheid, it's so..." Peter stopped.

Chad saw Peter's hands trembling. He would have to save him once again. "It's just so hard for people on the other side of the world to understand, and it's true that they are quick to judge."

Les laughed. Then he leaned forward, grasped his hands together, and said, "You are right, Peter. No doubt, apartheid is wrong, very wrong. But now, unfortunately, it is necessary. It has become a necessary evil, if you please. But you must understand this. South Africa is such a complex nation, and this is... well, it is a very complicated continent. In our country, there are twenty or more tribal peoples amongst the Bantus. Each one proudly clings to their own language. Each has its unique culture, distinct beliefs, and varied customs. They have warred with one another for centuries. Oh, there is no love lost between any of these tribes, and hatred is in their blood. The Jews and Arabs have nothing on some of these rivalries. Black rule? Which tribe would rule? Look across the continent. Tribal warfare still runs amuck. The Dutch, then the English, yes we colonized. We made this land our own. And in doing that, we established peace and began to develop this rich, rich land. We made it strong. We have made it productive. No different than what you Yanks did in America."

Steve interjected, "The truth is, whatever the world thinks, without the Whites, this country wouldn't be what it is today. The Whites, English and Afrikaners... we aren't ashamed of this. We are proud of it. This is our land as well as Bantu land."

As Les continued, each sentence became more emotional. "The reality the world misses is that we do live together here, enjoying the fruit of this great, God-blessed land. Black rule? No. Look at this continent, look at its sad history: Uganda, Mozambique, the Congo, even Rhodesia now. Everywhere Whites have pulled back... well, the reality is, chaos follows. Fighting, bloodshed, genocide, famine – the resources of this continent are wasted. That is not judging anybody. That is history. It would be no different here if...if change does not come in the right way, at the right time. Rush it, and there will be chaos. No, it would be a horrifying, unspeakable disaster." Les stopped and took a prolonged breath. He continued with a quiver in his voice that he sought to control. "We... Whites, English, Afrikaner, and... and the Blacks, Indians, Colored... we all love this country. We love it too much to let that happen here."

Pausing, Les shook his head. He finished his coffee, and set his cup down. He continued, a slight tinge of shame marked his tone, "Yes, apartheid is wrong, Peter. But, as wrong as it is... well, it is serving a purpose." He took his cup and lifted it up to take a drink, he noticed it was empty. He smiled, set it down and leaned back. He raised his index finger and pointed it gently first at Chad, then at Peter. "What people don't see and understand is that the Bantus in South Africa are better off than the vast majority of Blacks in the rest of Africa. They are treated better here. They have a better standard of living than most. That is the reality. Ay, take a trip to Mozambique, Uganda, Rhodesia. History, my boys. History does not give any confidence for quick solutions." Les leaned back further, tilting his chair. He shook his head slowly. "What you will find in our country right now is increasing fear. The people are fearful of civil war, of terrorists replicating Rhodesia's Bush War. I believe most South Africans are scared of losing what we have here, of losing our great country. We know the world looks at South Africa and condemns us. They assume the solutions are so simple. But the world looking in and the media that feeds them snippets about us, they do not know what really happens here. The world does not love South Africa as its people do." Les got up from his chair and walked toward the credenza. He poured a glass of brandy, sipped it, and said, "Many are even leaving, going back to England, Scotland, Australia. Because of my family, I may consider leaving, but we are not making plans just yet. What the world needs to do, my young friends, is pray. Pray for us."

Les finished his glass of brandy and poured another. He walked to the window and watched his youngest son swing the cricket bat. It hit its mark squarely, igniting cheers from boys enjoying life. "Well, enough of this. Steve, let's join your brothers and teach these Yanks something about South Africa. You boys ever played cricket?"

***

Spring mornings are cold in South Africa, and heating is minimal in most homes. The dreaded transition from warm bedcovers to the shock of chilly air and stone cold floors was to be avoided as long as possible. And for at least for one more day, jetlag could be claimed as dispensation for lingering under warm blankets.

With Simon working and Themba next door serving the landlord's family, Peter and Chad fended for themselves; toast and tea satisfied them enough. Then they faced their dreaded task of the day: planning and preparing for programs and services.

As the day wore on, frustration increased. Like the late nights they had often enjoyed at college, inane jokes, pointless laughter, and wonderful moments of absurdity took over. The day ended with an embarrassing lack of substance. They promised themselves that better days would come and that they would conquer the challenges put before them.

If Chad had been honest, he would have admitted he was thoroughly distracted that day thinking about the young girl whose glance seemed to stir something inside his psyche. His focus was on the coming dinner with the Van den Bergs. It would be an opportunity for him to begin his pursuit of the enchanting Sarah.

***

Susan's childlike smile greeted Chad and Peter as they walked through the door. Her hazy blue irises glistened. She gave each a quick kiss on the cheek as she said, "This is such a pleasure to have you join us. Johan has been looking forward to having you over." Susan's accent leaned toward her English roots. Her father was a proud Afrikaner; her mother's descendants went back to the early English colonists. She always said that when she turned eighteen, she realized she did not know if she was supposed to be an English South African or an Afrikaner. Marrying Johan made the decision for her; she was definitely English.

Susan's petite frame gave the appearance of frailty. She often appeared weary, but she always maintained an air of relentless determination. It was this determination that kept her dream from dying.

All who knew Susan assumed her to be the perfect housewife. She was so proud of her home, her girls, and her husband. She relished answering the call to sacrifice the potential she knew she possessed in order to ensure that her family would find and fulfill their potential. Some looked at Susan and saw weakness; others looked at her and saw strength. She didn't really care what they saw. She found her worth in building and maintaining her house, her home, and her family. Susan's dream of the perfect family demanded that her determination remain steadfast.

The two dinner guests were ushered into the living room. Copper images of wildlife adorned the tan walls. A large white, oval rug covered a good portion of the tiled floor. Susan invited them to sit and relax on a long sofa draped with a blanket resembling a zebra hide.

Before they could sit, Johan emerged with three beers in hand. "Well, well! You two look a bit more rested. Enjoying our South African Spring? It will be getting warmer soon. Have a _dop_ ," he said, tossing a bottle to Chad, then Peter.

"Not for me, thanks." Peter placed his beer on the coffee table.

With no hesitation, Chad said, "Oh, thanks. _Dankie_. Shoot, I'll have Pete's," and pulled Peter's bottle toward himself.

"Peter, what is wrong with you? I shouldn't think any good college lad would turn down a beer. Or do you need something stronger? Susan, bring some vodka for the boys!" Johan barked the order out to Susan who had just walked into the kitchen.

Peter winced and said, "Oh no, please, I'm fine."

Susan poked her head around the living room door and declared sternly, "Johan, we do not have vodka in this house."

"Silly woman. I know that. We don't keep the hard stuff." Johan stated this quietly to the boys. "She thinks it is too tempting for me, so I go elsewhere for the hard stuff. Shhh, I have some hidden around the house, but don't say anything. Perhaps you can join me sometime. We actually have to get the hard liquor from the townships. Our dear government does not want to encourage too much debauchery."

"Geez," Chad said.

Johan leaned toward Chad, winked, and declared, "Chad, I must tell you something about your American football boys. They are a bunch of sissies."

"Oh, is that right? _It is_ the roughest sport in the world."

Johan laughed. "Nonsense! They dress up in all those pads and those ridiculous helmets. My God! All that protection? They look like bloody spacemen. They are so afraid to get bruised up they wear pads like frail old women. Rugby! Now that is a true man's sport. Our rugby players have no use for pads or helmets. They're no sissies: No pads, no helmets, no sissies. We're not afraid of broken noses, broken bones, ears ripped off in the scrum. _That_ is a real man's sport. I don't know what's wrong with you Yanks. Old softies. That's what those footballers are in the USA."

Chad laughed and pointed his finger at Johan. "Well, the reason they use those pads is because so many of those so-called 'sissies' were dying because they were getting hit so hard. Maybe your rugby players just don't know what real hitting is all about."

" _Ag_ _man_! My Springboks would not leave a padded-up sissy of yours standing."

"As for your rugby sissies, they are simply fattened-up old men who have little brawn and no brains. Our football players are purebreds, true athletes that would run endless circles around your blubbery Springboks."

Johan shook his head. " _Ag nee_ _man_. You know nothing."

Peter sat in silence, looking about the room. The call to adjourn to the dining room ended Chad and Johan's banter. Peter got up with a look of relief on his face.

Chad looked out the large dining room window, it overlooked a gently sloping back yard leading to a row of trees with large panicles, just beginning to bud. "What are those trees at the bottom of your yard?" he asked.

Johan retorted, "Yard? What yard? That is a _garden_. And those are Jacaranda trees. Planted them myself when we moved. Those buds will soon burst into amazing blue flowers."

"Cool. Jacarandas," Chad said, imagining the incredible blue canopy that would soon appear.

"Come now. Come and sit," Susan said, ushering them to the table, adorned simply but eloquently with shiny silver-plated cutlery and Willow Pattern China. In the center sat a matching vase, holding five stems of Red Stars, a cheerful flower with six delicate and bright pink petals. The simple bouquet seemed to proclaim, _"Isn't life beautiful?"_

After they sat as directed, Susan rang a small bell to summon Sarah and her sister Lisa.

Peter leaned toward Chad and whispered, "Pavlov." It took tremendous effort for both to quell slight chuckles, which threatened to give way to misunderstood laughter.

As Sarah took her seat across the table, Chad glanced her way. She wore a tight red tank top and hip-hugger jeans with a thick white belt – enticing and still modest. It showed effort. Chad knew females, and this one was clearly trying to attract the attention of someone she wanted to impress. He sneaked a furtive glance; their eyes met, and two coquettish smiles ensued. Chad's heart skipped a beat, and he knew his first impressions were right. She was interested in him.

Peter noticed the schmaltzy smiles they had traded. He rolled his eyes when Chad glanced his way and grinned.

During expected and necessary table conversation, Chad interjected the occasional quip, quickly reading Sarah's reaction. She responded with slightly exaggerated laughter, indicating her interest further. This subtle ritual of flirtation came instinctively to Chad; it was an instinct he never had to learn and never had the desire to control.

Convinced that she was interested, Chad would now bide his time and wait for the opportunity to engage her in conversation and arrange for the first date. However, he reminded himself several times, _this is a foreign land and the rituals and protocols may be different. As well, this is an Afrikaner family – conservative, old fashioned, and overly religious_. He would have to tread very carefully.

With dessert settling and coffee served, the focus shifted to what seemed to be an emerging pattern.

"What does America think about South Africa? What are people saying? I am curious." Johan asked and followed it with a command. "Susan, love, it must be time for another beer ... and one for Chad and Peter."

"That would be your fifth. You do not need another." Susan's worried brow betrayed the playful tone in which she had spoken.

" _Ag nooit_. Don't treat me like a child, woman!" Johan took a slow breath. " _Please_ bring me another beer, _love_."

"Sorry. We're out," Susan's voice remained playful.

Johan clenched his jaw and filled his lungs.

Lisa blurted out, "I'll get it, Daddy. I'll get it," she said as she darted to the kitchen.

"Thank you, my cupcake. And bring one for Chad and Pete."

"Oh, no thanks. Another cup of coffee will do me just fine," Peter said.

" _Ag_ man. Where were we? Oh, yes. What does America think about South Africa? What do your people say?"

Chad and Peter had discussed how they would respond to these inevitable questions: keep answers short and shallow, avoid debates, ask no questions, and say nothing to offend.

Chad answered, "People don't say too much. They hear there was some trouble, and that's about it."

Johan scoffed. "There is no real trouble. Kaffirs getting angry, that's all. They will soon calm down and get back to being Kaffirs. The government will see to that. Most are happy enough. No, most are very happy. A few troublemakers will stir things up now and then, but nothing that cannot be handled. The Kaffirs will stay in their place."

Susan came in with a fresh pot of coffee. "Johan, don't use that word please. It is not a word to use in front of guests or your children."

"It is a fine word. There's nothing wrong with it, nothing at all."

Susan groaned. "Even your National Party has enough sense to ban the word. Please refrain yourself."

"Very well, very well. Bantu, Bantu. Happy? Whatever you call them, they are what they are. I tell you this boys, never get married. Good God almighty! This is what you get – vocabulary lessons. God bless 'em. I'll call them goddamn Kaffirs if I want."

"Dad!" Sarah protested.

"Okay, okay, princess. Bantus. Fine. Where were we? I'll tell you this. The world looks out from their glass houses 10,000 miles away and wants to tell us what to do, tell us what's right and wrong. 'Give your Blacks the right to vote. Minority rule must end right now! Apartheid must stop right now!' They need to worry about their own fu—"

"Dadeeee!" Lisa whined.

"Sorry, cupcake. They need to worry about their own business."

Peter, ignoring the rules Chad and he had agreed upon, spoke. "You would never let the Africans have a vote?"

"Let me tell you, in no way could the Kaffirs... excuse me, the Bantus, rule this country. Civilization would retreat 200 years overnight. When the bloody Ka... Ag man... Bantus, overran the farmhouses in Mozambique, they used the bloody toilets to wash their dishes, thinking, _Ahh, what a great White man's invention this is._ Black rule? Heaven forbid."

Sarah spoke in a guarded tone, "Dad, you know someday things will change. We can't ignore that. We will do better to help everyone prepare for that."

"Who's that speaking? Who is that? That's not my daughter, is it?"

"I'm just saying we should be working toward change, so we won't end up like... like Rhodesia." Sarah used a soft, gentle, but firm voice that would have disarmed the most hardened sociopath.

Johan took a few full breaths. "That is what they want, for us to end up like Rhodesia, like Mozambique. China, Russia – bloody hell, I think America wants it as well. I know the goddamn U.N. wants it. They want the terrorists to come and destroy our lives."

"The _Bantustans_ ," Lisa interjected. "Tell them about the _Bantustans_ , Daddy."

"Yes. This is the National Party's plan to turn homelands into independent countries. The various Bantu tribes would then have their own country and self-rule. The Transkei Homeland was given independence earlier this year. Other homelands, _Bantustans_ , will be turned over to independent rule over the next few years. Bophuthatswana will be next to get independence. This will satisfy the Bantus and prevent the chaos and carnage of another Mozambique."

Chad said, "Sounds quite reasonable. It gives the Blacks their independence. Self-rule."

"Exactly," Johan said, snapping his fingers and then pointing to Chad.

Sarah started to speak, "But we all know that is just a means to pacify—"

Her father interrupted, "Sarah, you go help your mother. I don't need lessons from you."

Sarah rolled her eyes and left.

Johan continued. "I'll tell you what angers me the most. It is these families running off to England, Scotland, Australia, and bloody New Zealand. No Afrikaners will turn tail and run like that. I tell you that. This family will never retreat. Our government will do whatever it takes to assure we maintain our lives here – whatever it takes."

A quiet pause ensued.

Chad was about to blurt something out, anything to refocus the conversation, but before any word reached his tongue, Johan continued with increased vigor. "Now, as far as apartheid goes, just remember this: it _is_ necessary and it _is_ working. It _is_ improving everyone's quality of life – White, and non-White alike."

Chad noticed Peter beginning to fidget and knew he was on the verge of blurting out some inflammatory comment or question. Peter then looked down and closed his eyes. Chad expelled a silent sigh of relief and was about to ask something, anything. _His job! I'll ask about his job_.

Before he opened his mouth, Peter exclaimed, "Not many agree with that."

Chad threw his head back, closed his eyes and braced himself for a volcanic eruption.

Johan thrust his finger close to Peter nose, " _Ag_ _man_! The world is happy to ignore the facts – facts that embarrass do-gooder politicians in Europe and America. It's all in the facts, and I'll give you the facts, my boy. Listen carefully. Fact: Bantus are treated better and live better in South Africa than anywhere else in this continent." Johan's index finger poked the dinner table as he proclaimed each of his purported facts. "Fact: the Bantus are happy here, and they are more prosperous here than anywhere else in Africa. Fact: Bantus across the continent and in South Africa are satisfied with their tribal cultures. They are very happy to be left alone. Fact: Whites settled this area of Africa before the Bantus migrated down here. God blessed us with this land first **.** Fact: no Black government has had a prosperous country. They all remain in the Third World. Show me one prosperous country where there has been Black rule. These are the facts the world chooses to ignore ... and you can tell your Mr. Kissinger to kiss my White ass. He tries to make the world believe this is a war-torn country, but you are here. You can see for yourselves. Is this a country at war? A few riots do not a war make. Tell your American friends that Kissinger and the bloody U.N. are all liars. We don't give a shit what Henry Kissinger and the goddamn U.N. say."

Susan entered the room and heard his last declaration. She gave her husband a look indicating he was getting too involved in his own verbiage and should now shut up.

He became quiet, took a prolonged breath, and laughed. " _Ag nee_ _man_. I do apologize. I can go on, can't I? You boys need to tell me when I become such a bore. Let's not get so political here. I promise to never be such a bore again."

Sarah brought in a pot of tea and said, "Shouldn't that be you won't be such a _Boer_ , Dad?"

"It is indeed both, my dear Sarah."

"No need to apologize. You gave us lots to think about, and I'm here to learn. Thanks for the lesson." Chad said this with a keen awareness that he would need to impress the father of this beautiful and intriguing young woman.

Peter nodded and excused himself to go the bathroom.

Johan suggested they play a game. Lisa insisted on charades.

Political debates were forgotten. They spent the rest of the evening in laughter and frivolity as Chad and Peter enjoyed a glimpse into another side of this family.

Susan suggested that Sarah drive their new friends home.

As they walked to the Beetle, Johan barked out, "You hurry back home now, Sarah!"

"Afraid you'll stop at your boyfriend's on the way home?" Chad asked as they climbed into the car.

"I've been known to do that," said Sarah.

Chad dismissed the comment. He was confident she had a bona fide interest in him. He would win her over, despite any imaginable obstacles that might lie ahead – including alleged boyfriends.

As they pulled up to Simon's home, Sarah nonchalantly said, "It may be helpful if we got together. I could fill you in about the church and the kids, perhaps give you some ideas."

"You can tell us what's worked and whatever," Chad said, suppressing a wave of excitement.

" _Ja_. We can go to a place called Jackson's, a pizza place. It's really the only place to hang out in Vandy."

"Great. Let's do it," Chad's said.

" _Lekker_. Wednesday? After youth group?"

"Laker," Chad said.

"Not laker. _Lekker_. _Lekker_ _man_ ," Sarah corrected as she drove off.

Chad punched Peter on his left arm as they walked toward the front door and said, "Yessss!"

"Man, put the brakes on! You don't need to be setting your sights on one of the local females. We just got here."

"Why, whatever do you mean, Peter, my boy?"

Peter punched him on his right arm. "Yeah, right."

***

Simon offered freshly brewed tea as they came through the door. "How was your evening? And how was Mr. Van den Berg tonight?"

Peter's assessment, "Interesting, very interesting." He went on to summarize Johan's tirade.

Simon laughed, which irritated Peter. "Yes, that Johan is a character. He can indeed be hard to handle at times, but he has a good heart."

Chad said, "I'm sure he does, but... um, what about Sarah? What's she like?"

"Intelligent, a natural leader. I would say she has her dad's stubbornness and forthrightness and her mother's compassion and genuineness – a wonderful combination."

"Mature for her age, don't you think?"

Peter shouted. "Just get to the point! God! Chad's mad over the girl. What he's really trying to ask you is if you think there is a chance for Jersey boy here to make it with a seventeen-year-old Afrikaner daughter of an alcoholic father."

"Geez, Pete! Why don't you try to be rude? But what do you think Simon? She is beautiful, intriguing, sexy, and irresistible. Sooo? Is she available... winnable?"

Simon laughed – a burst of laughter indicating more than mild amusement. "She's been dating Philip Pieterson for the past six months."

"So there's a bit of competition. That's okay."

Simon laughed again. "Ohhhh. Now you must know, Philip was a runner-up in last year's Mr. South Africa, and he did very well at Mr. Olympia this year, fourth or something in the short division. He is quite the bodybuilder. He's expected to do well in Mr. World this year."

Peter joined Simon's laughter. "I love it. That's great, just great. The cheerleader versus the bodybuilder. Jersey boy versus Mr. World. I'd buy a ticket to see that. How 'bout you, Simon?"

Chad shook his head. "I'll tell you what, there is something there. I could tell the first time I saw her, the first time our eyes met. There is a connection there. You'll see."

"Oh my God! Simon, it's the love-at-first-sight syndrome. What's the other name for it? Oh yeah, the out-of-your-mind syndrome. Some advice, Chad. Just stay off that train!"

"Maybe you're right, but I'm already on the train, so I might as well see where it goes."

"Simon, shall we warn the bodybuilder that a crazy train's a comin'?"

CHAPTER 9

Jackson's

Chad had perfected the art of improvisation. The planning sessions, the youth meetings, and even the church services – all improvised. That was how he approached all things great and small. His whole life had been pretense. He feigned commitment and effort, and impressed the masses; all the while, he was only hunting for the next attractive and available female to soothe his emptiness. Then Sarah appeared. He did not know why, but he knew this one would be different. All week, he went through the motions of his expected roles; however, the only thing on his mind was their assignation at Jackson's.

Peter dreaded the planning sessions, but he hated the meetings and the services infinitely more. Any meeting increased his level of anxiety, and worse, the possibility of a panic attack. He had not had a full-blown panic attack since arriving in South Africa. His anxiety level had risen many times, but through the years, he had learned to handle those waves of anxiety. A panic attack was a different matter; it was a cruel ogre, a monster that took on a life of its own. Every day he shot up a prayer that the monster would not raise its ugly head. Peter spent incredible emotional determination hiding the waves of anxiety and hiding his fear of the monster. He had to carefully conceal this aspect of his life lest others think (or was it know?) that he was crazy. _I can handle this. I can handle this,_ became the daily mantra he employed to endure the countless meetings, the arduous interactions with others and worst of, having to speak in front of human beings.

***

The aroma of baking pizza mixed with the intrusive, yet stimulating odor of cigarettes enveloped them as they walked through the door at Jackson's. The smell aroused memories of wasted hours hibernating in numerous bars in their college town.

Jackson's was an oasis for emerging adults in the tri-city area. The haunt attracted a mixture of individuals: the unemployed and barely employed, the thinkers and the inane, the socialites and the lonely. At each table they gathered to waste time, to avoid loneliness, to relax, and perhaps to feel important, if only for a few moments. One thing each group had in common was the color of their skin, _Blankes alleenlik_ ; Whites only.

As the door closed behind them, every head in the half-full establishment turned, checking to see if one of their mates had come to join them. The stares lingered longer than needed as patrons noted two new faces accompanying one familiar face. A few greeted Sarah by name. With curiosity satisfied, the patrons returned to their important matters of complaining, gossiping, flirting, jesting, or decrying the precarious state of their beloved country.

The trio stepped around mismatched tables, asymmetrically arranged, as they made their way to the row of booths lining the back wall. Large, smoke-stained mirrors accentuated each booth and offered a distorted reflection of the world on the other side.

As they nestled down in a secluded booth, a thoughtless burst of laughter erupted from the far end of the restaurant where six Afrikaners, probably in their late twenties, were meandering around an oversized pool table. Each one had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and each was extremely boisterous and gave evidence to being full of himself. They were oblivious to the groans of annoyed clientele who protested the obnoxious intrusion of the laughter, which had disrupted their own personal repartee.

"Planks!" Sarah said as she nodded toward the overbearing Afrikaners.

"Planks?" Chad asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Those awful Boers, Mompies, Planks. Oh, never mind."

Peter made a comment about the size of the pool table. A smiling Sarah corrected him, "That's snooker, not pool."

"Snooker? I guess that explains the oddballs. I mean those colored balls, not those guys." Peter was about to ask what 'snooker' might be when Chad offered a condensed explanation of the game. _God, there he goes. Trying to impress the first good-looking female he meets. Such a jerk!_ Peter rolled his eyes when Chad glanced his way. Chad winked and went on to talk about winning three straight pool tournaments at the country club.

A lightly freckled young woman, not two inches over five feet, took their orders. She brandished bright red hair that was pulled back tight, producing a stubby ponytail. Peter noticed Sarah gave her a wink as she walked off.

The three critiqued the evening's youth meeting and decided it went well, "Though Simon did ramble on, as usual," Sarah playfully moaned.

The three tossed around ideas for possible activities for coming youth meetings. Sarah warned them against some good ideas that had proved to be very bad ideas. After thirteen and a half minutes, the discussion had exhausted itself; there was the inevitable and uncomfortable pause when virtual strangers wonder what to say next. The three glanced here and there, avoiding eye contact.

Sarah ended the uncomfortable moment. She began exposing secrets of the more colorful teenagers and their families. Laughter broke through the awkwardness of strangers trying to prove themselves.

The redheaded waitress brought pizza and drinks. As she darted off, Sarah asked her what time she got off work. She threw her head back and replied, "Now now."

Peter and Chad later learned 'now now' was a South African expression meaning 'within ten minutes,' not to be confused with the widely used expression 'just now,' which implied 'in about twenty or thirty minutes, if you're lucky.'

Sarah said, " _Lekker_."

Peter looked at Chad and raised his eyebrows. Chad gave a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"That's Cindy, my best mate."

"Oh, cool," Chad replied.

"She'll join us in a minute."

"Oh really?" Peter said and thought, _My God, what awful hair!_

Sarah's friend returned in ten minutes, having changed her top, put lipstick on, and taken down her hair. The red hair was now more attention grabbing – an intense orangey red, coarse enough to make an oversized Brillo pad. Seeing her, an image flashed in Peter's mind: a life-sized troll doll. He bit his lip to curtail a smirk from emerging. He glanced at Chad and could tell he had the exact same thought. Both looked away for a moment, lest laughter burst forth.

The girl plopped down and slid toward Peter until her shoulder touched his. Peter's torso jerked the other way and he buried his shoulder into the mirrored wall.

"Cindy, Peter. Peter, Cindy. And this one's Chad. Best friends since we were six. She's been dying to meet you two." Sarah reached over and touched her hair. "Isn't this beautiful?"

Cindy laughed and grinned. Peter forced a polite smile and nodded. He bit his tongue lest the _Oh shit!_ in his brain come out uncensored. _My God! It's a setup. Did Chad know about this? Damn! A surprise blind date._ He had an overwhelming urge to leave. If he had known the way home, he would have excused himself and disappeared. He breathed in slowly and began to tell himself, _This_ _is no big deal, just a friend of Sarah's. It's fine. I can deal with this._ He hoped if he said this to himself enough times, he could actually believe it and finally relax.

Peter's firm dislike for this redhead forcing herself on them was instantaneous. For no particular reason, he had always abhorred red hair, any shade of it. Cindy's shade, unfortunately, was the most obnoxious shade of red he had ever seen. Moreover, her overbearing red hair was coupled with blatantly obscene red lipstick and matching fingernails. Peter was certain this offensive clash of nails, lips, and hair was far too much for anyone to have to bear. He actually felt embarrassed for her, but still had trouble looking her way.

Chad pointed at Cindy's hair and said, "That is a beautiful head of hair. I love it."

Cindy blushed and grinned. "Thank you."

"I would die for that a head of hair," said Sarah.

Chad quipped, "Naw, that just wouldn't suit you."

"True," Cindy replied. "It takes a very special person to be a redhead."

Chad said, "I suppose. You should've been a redhead, Pete."

"Those two do blend together, don't you think?" Sarah said, pointing at Peter and Cindy.

"I think you're right," Chad said and laughed.

Cindy turned pink.

Peter sat speechless. He glanced at Cindy and looked again at her red hair and red lips. He felt queasy. He said, forcing a grin, "You think so?"

As banal conversation continued, Peter's legs bobbed up and down under the table, and he struggled to find the right place to put his hands. He remained quiet and prayed for the evening to end.

With pizza devoured, drinks run dry, and banter dying down, Cindy and Sarah excused themselves to do whatever it is women do to freshen up.

Chad leaned over and whispered, "Get Cindy to go play darts with you."

"No way in hell!" Peter said, much too loud.

"Shh! Come on, man! Give me a few minutes alone with Sarah. Be a friend."

"Not for your entire inheritance, _friend_. This is not a blasted double date. God! No way. You know how goddamn awkward this is for me? Can't we just leave?"

"Come on! Cindy's not so bad. She's cute," Chad said.

"Cute? Are you blind? She's repulsive. And don't you dare leave her here with me to go off and flirt with Miss Brown Eyes. It's disgusting to watch you two making eyes at each other, pretending you're not. And, my God, those sloppy grins you keep trading! I don't think I can stand any more of it."

"I don't know what you're freaking out about. Just go and play darts or something. Pleassssse?"

"No way. Jesus! You're something." Peter leaned toward Chad and slowly said, "We are not here to chase females. Get your hormones under control."

Cindy returned while Sarah went to the bar to buy another round of orange squash, a diluted fruit drink that tasted more like water than fruit and seemed a waste of money to two Americans accustomed to Coke, Dr Pepper, and root beer.

Sarah was returning with a tray of drinks when a burst of laughter pierced everyone's eardrums. Sarah quickly jerked her head in the direction of the snooker players and lost her balance. Her hip grazed the corner of a table, which sent her spinning around. She fell hard on her buttocks. The four drinks waited half a second before they came crashing down on her lap, drenching her shirt and jeans with sticky orange liquid. Five dozen eyeballs focused on her, and a momentary pause gave way to an eruption of laughter and applause. It died down quickly as clientele and staff returned to their own more important concerns.

Her three companions rushed over to make sure nothing more was damaged than pride. Sarah remained bright red. Without any words, Cindy whisked Sarah off to the back. The houseboy cleaned up the mess and brought four more drinks while smiling wildly, obviously amused at the poor White girl's calamity. Peter and Chad worked hard to keep their own laughter subdued as they rehashed the sight of four drinks waiting for Sarah to hit the floor before diving down to drown her.

Sarah and Cindy returned with Sarah sporting a new shirt – none of Cindy's spare work shirts. Sarah's jeans remained damp from the attempted cleanup; new customers would assume an accident of a different sort. Sarah blushed again as she returned. She plopped quickly in the booth and declared, "I feel this big," holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "I am so sorry. I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life. Can we please just leave now?"

Cindy said, "Don't be sorry. It could happen to anyone."

"Yeah. No one cares. They don't. They barely noticed," Chad assured her.

"Riggght," Sarah whimpered.

"Really, it's nothing to worry about. You'll dry out. We've all been the fool now and then." As Peter said this, he realized that was the wrong word to use. "I mean, we've all had our moments when we wanted to disappear and fade away. But look, everyone's consumed with themselves, not giving it another thought."

"You can't imagine what I feel," Sarah said, still as red as Cindy's lipstick and refusing to look at her companions.

"Sure we can. Can't we, Pete?" Chad looked intently at Peter with a sly smirk.

Peter knew where Chad was going. Chad would dare to ask him to sacrifice his dignity to soothe this damsel in emotional distress.

"Right, Peter? Riggght?" Chad's tone became that of a beggar heaping guilt on one unwilling to part with what is his to keep.

"Yeah. Sure. That's true. I suppose so," Peter said, thinking, _I'm not giving in to this manipulation_.

"Go on. Tell them about Kingsbury's class."

"I don't think so, thanks." Peter felt his face turning red.

"Come on. It was years ago. I'll tell them," Chad said.

An unwanted thought came to Peter: _Go ahead and get it out. It won't hurt. Why not? Maybe it'll help her._ His mouth opened before his brain commanded it to remain shut, "Whatever. It's stupid, but I'll tell."

"Great. First time ever revealed!" Chad declared.

"We had this class, Theories in Social Psychology, or some such crap. Chad and I were giving this class presentation. Chad was done with his part. He'd gone first. Right, Chad?"

"Luck of the coin toss. My presentation was, if I say so myself, incredibly impressive."

"Forgettable. Incredibly forgettable, just like everybody else's. Wish mine had been so forgettable. Okay, anyway, halfway through, talking about the individual's need for acceptance, ways society denies acceptance and thwarts individualization and whatever bull I had come up with, halfway through, I sneezed."

"Yeah. Listen to this." Chad nudged Sarah's shoulder with his.

"Not just any sneeze. It was a pretty bad sneeze—"

Chad interrupted, "A pretty bad sneeze? No way! It was wild, three – yes, THREE – rapid-fire sneezes, each more powerful, building up to crescendo which released a spew of phlegm and snot traveling at least six feet, right onto two girls in the front row. It covered them!"

"Yes, thanks, Chad. It's true. It covered them."

" _Ag nee_ _sis_ , man!" Sarah let out the South African expression used for expressing disgust.

" _Ag sis,"_ Cindy said at the same moment.

A smile grew on Peter's face. He laughed and continued. "Of course, they screamed, jumped up, and ran toward the door, both declaring me a bastard _._ But you know... I don't know why... but no one in the class blinked an eye. No one reacted, like they completely ignored it."

Cindy said, "Too embarrassed for you. Rather polite."

"Anything but. Anyway, I skipped to the last page of my notes, finished in ten seconds, and sat down. Even Kingsbury had mercy. He just said 'Class dismissed.' That's when everyone started. As they hit the door, everyone exploded in laughter. That's my story. That was the most humiliating day in my life, and I will never talk about it again. And just for the record, I would gladly trade places with you, Sarah."

"Tell them what you did then. I love this bit. Tell them!" Chad said, containing his laughter.

"No. I didn't do anything."

"He did. Peter was the biggest hippie-looking guy on campus at a time when hippies were going out of style. He was like the Neanderthal man on campus. He had a disgusting beard down to here and hair down to here. He had no lips, no ears, no eyes. So he disappears and comes back clean-shaven. He cropped all his hair off, right down to a damn crew cut, just like that."

"Trying to hide? Disappear?" Sarah asked.

"Sure. I didn't want anyone pointing and saying 'There's the bastard that covered those cheerleaders in snot.' I didn't go back to class until the day of the final, and no one had any idea who I was."

Cindy said, "You don't seem like the hippie type. Long hair, tie-dyed shirts, smoking dope and all."

"I was no hippie. I was just an unkempt guy."

"That's an understatement. Tell them that story. Tell why you morphed into a pseudo hippie," Chad said with enthusiasm.

"No way."

"Oh, go on then. What's the story?" Cindy asked in a high-pitched voice that came across as childlike.

"It was dear Peter's fall into the abyss, his Sartre years – a tragic story of unrequited love that threw the poor wretch into the depths of an unrelenting living hell."

Peter said, "Don't mind him. He's well-polished in the art of exaggeration."

"Tell them about _her._ " Chad's request bordered on a demand.

Peter took a slow breath. He saw two pairs of eyes that appeared interested and caring. _Perhaps talking about her will bring a bit more relief, a bit more distance from the most humiliating and debilitating experience of my crappy life._ He told the story of _her,_ of Norwood, of a wasted trip and his road to nothingness. "Ironic," he concluded. "I grew the hair, a beard, to disappear, because I didn't give a rip about anything anymore. Then over a sneeze, I cut it all off... to stay invisible." Peter stopped and looked at the two females; he felt exposed, vulnerable. Before the two could offer any sympathy and pity, Peter turned to Chad. "All right. I think it's your turn. What about you, Chad? What's the most dreadful moment in your pristine life?"

Chad declined the invitation, but Sarah insisted. "That would only be fair. Right, Chad?" Her incredible brown eyes looked intently into his blue eyes.

He rubbed his face with both hands and leaned back in the booth. He then looked at his friends and spoke, "Okay then. When I was thirteen, one day I forgot to take the trash out. The garbage men had already come and gone. My dad went into this rage, got on me like it was some huge, unforgiveable sin of omission. He called me all sorts _–_ lazy, retarded, bastard, a worthless son, and some other things I won't repeat. He said, 'You're useless. You'll never amount to anything, will you?' He went on and on about the damn garbage. As I walked out the door to get in the car with mom to go to school, I mumbled, 'You're such a fu... such an effing bastard.' My dad heard it. Before I knew it, he'd caught me by the shoulder, spun me around, and slapped me in the face. Then he said, in a very calm, self-righteous voice, 'You are not to use such language in my home.'

"I went on to school. After second period, the teacher called me to the front of the classroom and asked what happened. I didn't know what she was talking about. Then she pointed to my face and said, 'There's a large bruise on your face, Chadwick. Tell me what happened.' Without thinking, I told her my dad had slapped me. Told her it was no big deal, and I walked off. During fifth period, they called me out of class. A fat lady, with a hairy chin, from CPS (Child Protective Services) was there. She asked no end of questions. I told her Dad and I had been throwing the football around the night before and it hit me when I wasn't looking. I told her things were fine with Dad. I said, 'No way! My dad's never been abusive to me. That's stupid.'

"I went home, scared senseless. I kept telling myself she believed it and there was nothing to worry about, that nothing would come of it. When I got home, Dad was already there. I walked through the door, and he slapped me again, right in the same place. He screamed at me, 'Don't ever tell anyone our business again!' He took me upstairs and beat me with a belt, where no one would see it. He kept asking, 'Who's the effing bastard now?' That day, I decided my dad hated me, and I determined I would always hate him."

Chad's lips started to quiver. He pulled in his lower lip and bit it. He looked at Peter with wide eyes, begging him to say something.

After seconds that seemed like minutes, Peter nodded and said, "Sarah, what about you? What's a dark secret that mars and shapes your life?"

Sarah shook her head. She looked at Chad for a moment and then gave a single nod. With little eye contact, she told her story. "On my thirteenth birthday, I went with three friends to Johannesburg to shop, and then we went ice skating. It was great, celebrating being teenagers, feeling grown up. We came home at four forty-seven." Sarah stopped and looked down.

Cindy reached over, took her hand, and squeezed it. "Don't. It's okay."

Sarah tilted her head and said, "No, it's okay. It's only fair since they told us their stories. Anyway, we got home. Dad was lying on the curb. He'd vomited on the pavement, and he... he'd urinated on himself. You see, he used to go on these binges... used to, but not anymore. They'd last two or three days. So, two of his drinking mates had brought him home and just pushed him out of the car. I helped him up as best I could, but his legs refused to move. I propped him up to get him to the house. My friends and someone's mother, they just watched. They were too embarrassed or too disgusted to help. They were certainly too embarrassed to come in for cake and pressies. I told them things were fine. I told them Dad just didn't feel too well. My mom finally saw and came out to help.

"We went in, cleaned up the stench, and stuck him in bed. We sat down and opened my pressies. No one said a word. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. There was no point." As Sarah finished her story, a stoic look was etched on her face, as if declaring she had resigned herself to the fate the world had thoughtlessly thrust upon her.

"God. I would have left him out on the street, ignored him and had my cake and presents. I would have locked him out forever." Chad said, completely serious. "You should've just walked past him with your friends and said, 'Oh, that's just my old man, sleeping off his latest binge. Don't worry about him.'"

Sarah glared at Chad. Her eyes flashed with a piercing anger. It quickly faded. With a hint of guilt in her tone, she said, "He didn't do it again. He doesn't go on those binges anymore. He still drinks a little, but just enough for a slight buzz. He never gets drunk anymore." She paused and looked Chad in the eyes and said, "He is a good father. He is. I'm lucky. I am. He's a good man."

Chad blinked several times. His head started to shake, but he stopped it and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Peter was sure he knew what Chad's unexpressed thought was, _How could such a father steal this daughter's love and loyalty? A young, beautiful woman, who deserves nothing but respect_.

Sarah turned to Cindy. "Cinders, your turn. Tell them one of your family secrets."

"I'm sure everyone has had quite enough," she said sheepishly.

"Oh not all. We can't leave without the privilege of opening a chapter into the hidden life of this feisty little redhead," Chad said.

Cindy glared. "Feisty? Feisty!"

Chad laughed. "Aren't all redheads supposed to be feisty? Actually, didn't you kind of just prove my point? But what secrets linger beneath? What tragedies distort your view of life?"

Cindy expelled a quick breath and then breathed in slowly. "If I must. My dad... well, he's in prison. He was, or I guess _is_ , a con artist and a smuggler. He is charming enough to be a second-rate con artist but not smart enough to be a cunning criminal. Dad's a brash but likeable transplanted Scott, but I'm sorry to say he's an incurable sociopath."

Cindy told stories of her father using her and her younger brother as decoys when he smuggled diamonds, drugs, and guns to and from South Africa. Often he would get by customs without a second look simply due to his two adorable redheaded children. "There was one trip, when I was about ten and my brother was eight, we were going into Rhodesia from Mozambique. He had placed a machine gun in my suitcase and another one in my brother's. On the top of his own suitcase, he'd put some rare antique revolver – supposedly a rare gun from the First World War. They asked to search the suitcases, so he quickly opened his, revealing this intriguing pistol. The guards gathered around, admiring it. Dad put on this boyish look and profusely apologized, acting as if he was so utterly embarrassed that he'd forgotten all about it. They, of course, assumed this man did not have enough common sense to be a smuggler. They just sent us on our way."

"Did you know about the machine guns?" Peter asked.

" _Ja_. He would just tell us they were guns he was going to sell, with the attitude that everyone has a couple of guns to sell when they travel around." Cindy stopped and intertwined her fingers and placed her hands on the table. Staring at her hands, she continued. "When I was fifteen, not a cute little kid anymore, Dad put a quarter-pound of heroin in my backpack. We were going to South West Africa. We got through customs with no problems. We were sitting on a bench in the airport, waiting for our ride, who we found out later was Dad's contact. Dad went to buy some sandwiches. Then a policeman came around with a dog, an Alsatian. The dog went crazy. Before I could think, they grabbed me, and in a blur, I was in this empty room, surrounded by five policemen, all barking out questions.

"I knew my backpack had one of dad's _projects,_ as he liked to call them. I had no idea it was drugs, heroin. He'd always said, 'If there's ever any trouble, tell them you don't know what they're talking about,' so I told them I had no idea it was there and no idea how it got there. They got more and more irate, screaming at me and threatening me with years in jail. I thought... I really thought Dad was not going to show up. I thought he would let me go to prison.

"Before Dad could find me, they took me into town and put me in a rank cell with drunks, druggies, and prostitutes. The smell of urine and vomit made me sick. I was scared stiff. I sat in the corner on the floor and soon felt wet... it was urine. I didn't dare move, didn't dare look at anyone. It was three hours before Dad tracked me down. He told a bunch of lies that didn't fly, but when he finally confessed, they dragged him off, and they put me in someone's office. I had to stay there until the next afternoon when Mom and my brother finally came and got me. Dad's been in prison ever since. He could have gotten a life sentence, but he informed on the dealers or sources or whatever they are. He says he's changed. He wants to move down to Cape Town and help his brother run a hotel when he gets out. Mom believes him."

"Why hasn't she left him, just divorced him?" Peter asked.

"She'll never leave him. She says she still loves him and still thinks he'll change. I try to love him, but I can't trust him. It's awful hard to love someone you don't trust."

Chad proclaimed, "Geez! We're all so blessed with such model dads – except you, Peter McKnight, you poor thing. His mom and dad are so damn normal it's disgusting. That must have been rough growing up in the _Leave It to Beaver_ family."

Peter shrugged.

The four exchanged awkward looks as the realization dawned; they had dared to betray family secrets and expose ugliness meant to remain hidden at all costs.

Sarah looked at her watch and gasped. "It's late! I need to get home. Maybe we can... um... meet next week?"

Peter nodded with little expression. Cindy grinned like the Cheshire Cat. Chad said, "Sounds great. Or should I say, _lekker,_ man?"
CHAPTER 10

The Unspeakable Spoken

Wednesdays never arrived soon enough for Chad. He spent each week anticipating his opportunity to be with Sarah, and each day he fought an overwhelming desire to push the relationship forward.

Chad knew well his propensity to let emotions have their way – to take the lead and then dissipate as swiftly as they had come. He was used to pitching a tent; putting it up quickly, disassembling it with even more haste, and then moving on. With Sarah, he desperately yearned for more; he would lay a foundation solid enough to build something worthwhile, something that would promise much more than he had experienced in a thousand previous transient and worthless relationships.

***

During their fourth rendezvous at Jackson's, a realization surprised Peter – a realization that evoked sorrow and fear. As he sat with Cindy, devouring greasy pizza and talking about nothing and about everything, it occurred to him that this was the first time in three years he had let a female into his world.

At that dawning moment, he excused himself to go to the loo. He stood looking in the mirror, demanding that this dreadful sadness and inexplicable fear go away. _Why is this so hard? Why does it feel so awful, so strange? Why doesn't this feel good, exciting? Why doesn't this give me some kind of hope? Hell! What is wrong with me?_ There were no answers; he only knew he did not like the emotions this female evoked. He spoke to the mirror: "You tell her, here and now, that you appreciate her friendship and enjoy being with her, but warn her! Tell her this can never be more than friendship. Do it now!"

Cindy's eyes beamed when he returned, as if he had been gone for months. Her animated expression made him feel even more uncomfortable. He again told himself, _Tell her! Explain things to her... NOW!_ He said nothing.

That night in bed, Peter stared toward the ceiling and muttered to himself, "One thing I am sure of is that she is not my type. Being friends is okay, but that is all it can ever be. I'll tell her next time."

Later a discomforting dream stirred him out of his sleep. He found himself wading into the surf, bitter cold stinging his ankles. He told himself, _Don't go any further_. However, once he became used to it, it started to feel good, so he waded a little further out. It was painfully frigid on his thighs and waist. He told himself, _Don't you dare go any further!_ Again, he became accustomed to it and enjoyed the chill, the freshness. So he immersed himself in the deep water. It was too much. He screamed for help, but it was too late. The hidden tide pulled him under. He was drowning, dying, and then ... then he awoke. As he got out of bed, he told himself, _I will tell her next time. No further, Peter. Don't you let this thing go one blasted inch further._

***

"Roger! Sure I do." Chad had answered the phone and greeted the caller as if he were an old friend. He gave Peter a bewildered look.

Peter whispered quickly, "He's that pastor from some church in Jo'burg, the guy Simon knows. We met him at the _braaivleis_. You know, the tall, loud one?"

Chad nodded his head in recognition. "It's great to hear from you ... Oh yeah, of course I remember. Yeah, we'd appreciate the opportunity... I'm sure it will ... Sure, that would be great. Yes, we can be ready... It's no problem...Yes. Eight is fine."

Peter's eyes berated Chad as he hung up. He groaned, "Nooo! Are you nuts? I'm not going to his church. When is this supposed to happen?"

"Sunday, for the church service and dinner after. Someone from the church will pick us up Sunday morning at eight o'clock."

"I don't believe you. You don't remember, do you? He was such an arrogant ass. And what will Simon say? What about the stuff we're supposed to be doing on Sunday? Why would you agree to that? I ain't going."

Chad retorted, "Why not? It'll be a change. See a bit of Johannesburg. Quit tripping."

"You should have asked Simon first."

"He's not our dad, Peter. It's no big deal."

***

"I see. We should have discussed this first. Now what about Sunday services? Sunday School?" Simon responded curtly when Peter mentioned the invitation in passing over dinner that evening.

Peter looked at Chad and raised his eyebrow, indicating it was his role to deal with an irritated Simon.

"Didn't think it'd be a problem," Chad said. "You don't mind doing Sunday school, do you? Sorry. I suppose we should have asked."

Simon drew his head back, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly. "It will be fine. It's fine. You will find the church is different. Roger is a bit... well, he's different but a wonderful fellow. I appreciate him. I always have."

Peter felt a 'but' was sure to come, but it didn't.

***

"A chauffeur! How 'bout that?" Chad whispered to Peter as they followed the middle-aged African man to the car on Sunday morning. Chad was about to follow Peter into the back seat when the driver opened the front door of the car.

A sculptured and modest afro enhanced the man's already tall frame. His broad nose, extended forehead, and slight convergent squint gave him what some might have construed as a sinister look. However, his disarming smile calmed any such perception. That smile, on its own, revealed a gentle heart and a concerned spirit ready to reach out to everyone he met. The African introduced himself. "I am Dumisani Bhengu. I have the honor to bring you to church this morning. What a privilege it is to meet you, Peter, Chad. This is a true pleasure, indeed."

He spoke without the broken English they had heard from the few natives they encountered; he pronounced each word with care, reminding the listener that every word spoken was of importance. "I assist Reverend Roger at his church. I have been looking forward to meeting the two Americans. It will be wonderful to have you join us this morning, a great honor."

Peter responded in his normal near mumble, "Yeah, we've been looking forward to this as well." Chad looked quickly at Peter in the back seat with a terse glare. Peter knew it was meant to remind him of the countless times he had complained about Chad's acceptance of Roger's invitation. Peter just shrugged his shoulders.

"It is getting warmer now." Dumisani moved into the niceties required by social norms, even in Africa. "Oh yes, summer has come a little late this year for us. November will soon be here, and the rains have only just arrived. Summer has not officially started until the first rain. Now, you must tell me about your America. It is a special place, I know. Please tell me about where you come from."

They offered superficial glimpses into their hometowns, their lives as America's average, White, middle-class nobodies. Peter felt uneasy, fearing he might ask about America's view on apartheid and South Africa's Afrikaner government. Dumisani seemed to avoid the subject. _Maybe he doesn't worry about politics,_ Peter thought.

Roger welcomed them rather curtly when they arrived at the church, obviously preoccupied and rushed. As they took their seats in the front row of the sanctuary, they were shocked to see a dozen or so Africans in the congregation of roughly a hundred.

Peter looked up as the music began and was stunned to see Dumisani standing alongside Roger. A glance Chad's way revealed he, too, was surprised. "More than just a houseboy, I guess." Peter whispered in Chad's ear.

"Interesting," Chad replied in less than a whisper.

The service began, and Peter knew immediately that it was the antithesis of the St. Stephen's church services, which were more formal, if not stuffy. The congregation interacted and seemed more intense, daring to exhibit emotions. Chad shifted constantly in the pew throughout robust and unfamiliar modern hymns. He squirmed even more during rousing prayers, as individuals sporadically called out "Amen!" Peter made more effort to engage in the singing and found himself, for some reason, smiling during the songs of praise.

Then Roger stood to preach. His deep, full voice thundered with emotion. These unleashed emotions increased Chad's fidgeting in his seat. Peter nudged Chad several times and gave him a look conveying his annoyance. Chad crossed his arms and remained still for a few moments before his feet began to shift and his arms worked to find a comfortable position.

Peter found Roger's booming voice and his spirited delivery intriguing. He mused to himself, _What a far cry from ole George, who beats an obscure passage to death, putting us all to sleep while he tries to uncover_ _hidden_ _spiritual lessons._

Toward the end of his sermon, Roger's tone intensified. "The horror of Soweto is a call to Whites, a wakeup call that demands we examine our hearts and souls. It is a call to join with the Africans in their struggle. Soweto, my friends, has challenged the Church, has challenged each one of us to declare to this nation that in Christ, there is no Black or White. There is no slave or free, no rich or poor. In Christ, we are one. Because this is true, we must, we will stand together against apartheid with our African brothers and sisters."

Roger paused and surveyed the congregation. He continued, with mounting passion in his plea, "It is our call. It is who we are. Christ has made us so. This is a tender time in our nation's history, and we, God's Church, must gird ourselves to speak out." He pointed to various individuals seated around the modest sanctuary, "For you... and you, it may be subtle, perhaps a change of attitude and words spoken. For you... and you, it may require growing compassion and understanding. For you... and you... and you, it may call for bold action, taking risks that require sacrifice. It well may mean speaking up and speaking out. To answer this call will not be easy. But we, English and Afrikaners alike, must answer this challenge."

He paused for a moment. He put his fist against his heart and continued in a calmer, more tender manner. "To my African brothers and sisters, let the tragedy of Soweto burn in your hearts and do respond with vigor. However, please, please remember to examine your hearts, your souls and respond not out of hatred and bitterness, but out of noble motives and out of love. Respond, yes! But respond knowing, and embracing, that in Jesus Christ, we are one. Let us all embrace the reality of _ubantu_. In Christ, _ubantu_ reigns! Black and White, together we are God's people. Amen."

With Roger's "Amen," Chad leaned over to Peter and said, "Let's skip lunch. I'll tell him we have to get back. I've had enough of this."

Peter tilted his head like a confused puppy staring at a record player. "What do you mean? We can't do that. It'll be interesting. What's up with you? We can't back out now."

"Just make sure we keep it short. And I'm going tell him we don't want to talk about politics."

Peter laughed. "You do that."

***

Chad walked around Roger's small apartment looking at carved figurines of native women, men, and children mingled with figurines of Africa's wildlife, often picking them up to observe them more closely. Peter stood by the far wall looking at colorful paintings depicting Africans engaging in the joys of village life. Along with paintings were several photographs of Roger and his wife Rebecca, posing with Africans of all ages, most taken in small villages.

"Hey, Chad. Look at these pictures. Roger's wearing a fancy African robe. I love the bright green and yellow and this hand-carved jewelry hanging around their necks. It's cool."

Chad looked at the photographs. He nearly rolled his eyes at Peter but caught himself and simply nodded.

Roger entered the room with a tray of teacups. "Now, who had sugar and milk?" Chad reached for the cup as Roger handed Peter the other one and said, "This one's yours then, Peter. You like those? We took those photos in Lesotho. We go on mission trips there most winters, doing outreaches in the villages there. We spend about..."

The ringing of the doorbell interrupted him.

Roger walked toward the door and said, "That'll be Dumisani and his wife Nisha. They usually join us for Sunday lunch."

Chad had an uncomfortable emotion turn over in this stomach as Dumisani and Nisha came through the door. The odd sensation continued to nag him as they sat down for dinner. He could not name the feeling, but it increased his desire to hurry through the meal and return home. At least he felt some relief when the women served dessert. _We can get the heck out of here soon, and we've escaped the political dissertations_.

Then, Peter opened his mouth. "I enjoyed your sermon. I found it was different – very different – from George's approach. It was really thought provoking."

Roger's eyes lit up. Rebecca looked at her husband with a proud smile. With focused passion in his voice, he replied, "Peter, proclamation of the Word of God necessitates challenge and demands provocation. I do not want individuals to enjoy a sermon. I want them to leave feeling uncomfortable, even worried. The more worried and uncomfortable a person becomes, that is the gauge by which I judge the effectiveness of my or anyone's sermon. A sermon must show us how we have failed to believe, failed to embrace the true Christ, and failed to be the people of God."

Peter responded, "Never have thought of it that way, but all that about Soweto? How does that fit in?"

Chad glared at Peter. He tried to kick him underneath the table but hit a table leg instead. This caused teacups to rattle and spill some of their contents. "Oh I'm sorry. My leg, it went to sleep. I was trying to stretch it. Sorry. Yes. What about Soweto, this call to respond? What exactly happened there?"

Roger and Dumisani leaned forward at this question. The women suddenly excused themselves to clean up and prepare a fresh pot of coffee. Roger spoke, "It began early this year when the National Party passed a law requiring that English and Afrikaans be used in all schools on a 50/50 basis. This was a ridiculous idea from the ridiculously out-of-touch government. Math and social studies would be taught in Afrikaans, while science and electives, woodwork, housecraft and such like would be in English. Some say this insane and inane decision by the government was rooted in fear that the introduction of television would somehow build more favor for the English, somehow strengthen the English cultural stronghold. But—"

Dumisani interrupted, " _Ja_ , but no doubt the true concern, the true fear of this White government is that Black children become too well educated, too assertive, and too self-confident. This was a well-thought-out plan by the oppressors to continue their subjection of the African people. There is no question about this. Force all schools to use Afrikaans? It is a way to frustrate – indeed hinder – their education, so as to keep Africans in their place!"

Roger was biting his lower lip as Dumisani spoke. He nodded, then resumed. "Think about it. What does education do? What does it accomplish?"

Chad was quick to respond. "It teaches. It gives us knowledge about things."

Roger replied with a slight smirk that he punctuated with a pretentious tilt of his head. "Oh, but there is so much more, gentlemen! Education enlightens, brings awareness, and creates power. Proper education will always teach us _how_ to think, not _what_ to think. Education gives an individual and a people the tools to lead, and it takes away the need to be led. Education is power. South Africa's greatest hope is to educate young Africans. We must prepare them we... we must raise up leaders. The government fears an educated Black."

Dumisani spoke, his voice increasing in intensity with each sentence, " _Yebo_ , yes. The government chooses to ignore the Africans. Where there are schools, they are ill equipped. Black parents are expected to pay for this education, but Black parents have less and pay more for education, much more than any White family. White families pay half what an African family pays, and they make much, much more. The reason is simple. The government fears the educated African." Dumisani stopped. He stood up and said, "Coffee? I shall assist Nisha in preparing some coffee." He retreated quickly to the kitchen.

This African's growing anger and intensifying passion caused Chad's stomach to tighten. He had sensed anger from the Afrikaners and also from the English South Africans, though much more tempered. Dumisani's anger and passion were both desperate and intimidating. He felt this whole conversation inappropriate for a Sunday afternoon. _Why the hell am I here? I could be in Vandy. I could be with Sarah this afternoon._

Roger continued, "They passed this ludicrous law. Everyone was up in arms – teachers, principals, and students, both Black and White. Schools across the country protested, but the bloody decree was already in place. The fools in Pretoria expected English-speaking teachers to wake up one day and teach subjects in their second or even third language. Many spoke minimal Afrikaans.

"Exams were coming in June, and students were frustrated and fed up. They knew this was not just a stupid and unnecessary decree from Pretoria. They understood its goal was to frustrate them so they would give up. These children decided to do something – a protest, a march. They did it on their own. No parents or teachers even knew about it. They did not want to be dissuaded." Roger paused, took a few slow breaths, and then continued, "June 16 was cold and overcast, a bleak winter morning. At ten o'clock, students from all the schools in Soweto stood up, walked right out of their classrooms, and marched down the streets. The plan was to meet at the soccer stadium. There were 12,000 children, maybe more, ages ten clear up to eighteen. They were going to draw up a list of grievances. Some would then march to the school board in Booysens to present their concerns."

Dumisani now composed, returned with six cups of coffee. He chose his words carefully. "Oh yes, it was... it was beautiful. Young Africans standing up in a wonderfully assertive and peaceful... a peaceful manner. Then... then..." Dumisani stopped. He shook his head, took a breath, and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Roger spoke, "Police arrived and ordered them to stop. Then, for God knows what reason, a policeman shot into the crowd, the crowd of children. It was unprovoked and senseless. Other policemen started shooting, and Armageddon was unleashed. No purpose, no reason. Police shooting... shooting children. Defenseless, innocent boys and girls were falling dead in the streets. The streets of Soweto ran with children's blood.

"Of course, the students reacted! Yes, in anger, in terror, in fear. They began to attack government buildings, government vehicles and buses. They turned their rage and fear against any symbol of apartheid. It went on and on. It would not stop, could not stop. By noon, helicopters circled the township, dropping teargas canisters. They fired into crowds, into houses, not caring who or what they hit. The more force they applied, the more the students responded with rage and destruction.

"Early evening came. Buses and taxis arrived, bringing workers back home from Johannesburg. These people knew nothing of what was happening. They didn't realize gatherings of more than two people had been banned. The witless police attacked them, bullets fired into crowds of three, four, five innocent people – just ordinary people walking home, just walking home.

"By the time night fell, Soweto was alight in flames. Black smoke rose over the township. The gunfire didn't stop. The helicopters circled. The hospitals... the hospitals were flooded with people, flooded with African blood. Dumisani was there. He worked in Baragwaneth Hospital. He saw it with his own eyes, witnessed the horrors firsthand. He talks little about it." Roger paused and looked at Dumisani.

His coworker looked down at his clenched fist resting on the table. The others waited. Roger finally said, "It's fine, my friend." He looked at Chad and said, "It remains too difficult to give it words." Still staring at his hands, now clasped together, Dumisani said, "No. It needs words." He slowly raised his head. His lips quivering, he opened his mouth and spoke the unspeakable. "At ten fifty a.m. a young boy was rushed into casualty. He was no more than fifteen years old, dressed in his school uniform. He had been shot... shot in the head. Blood oozed out from his throat. A bullet had gone through his head and left his body through his neck. The doctors and nurses did all they could, but they could not save the boy. His name was Hector, and I shall never forget him.

"We could not believe a child had been shot. How could this happen? How? Who? A robbery? Children playing with a gun? Young children in a horrible argument? Where would they get a gun? Black South Africans do not – cannot have guns. Shortly after we lost Hector, more children began to come to our hospital... ten year olds, eleven, twelve, in their school uniforms, all covered with blood, all with gunshot wounds. Every child shot above the waist. Why? Why did the police shoot to kill? We could not figure out why.

"As the day went on, the dying and the wounded kept coming. Parents began to arrive at the hospital, hysterical, desperately looking for their children, begging to know if their sons and daughters were still alive. My task became to help these parents. I had to get information about their children, their names, ages, and features – anything that may help put a name to each new child brought in, a name to all the children lining the corridors of the hospital, a name to the children lying in the streets around the hospital. This was a grim task trying to help parents find their child... most often, their children. Workers from the hospital, too, were among them. Imagine these poor parents, too hysterical to concentrate or do their work, having to know, to find out if this one or that one was their child. Then having to go back to work sometimes knowing and sometimes knowing nothing.

"As the sun set, adults were being admitted. Some had wounds going through the tops of their bodies. It made no sense. The helicopters were hovering above Soweto. The whirling, rhythmic whips and thuds of the blades fading in and out as they circled around the township, shooting, shooting downward, down through people's houses."

Dumisani paused. He gazed past his companions and focused on the lone window in the flat. He spoke in a near whisper, and tears began to well up. "I watched through the windows of the hospital, late into the night – so exhausted, so angry, so terrified. The wounded, the dying, did not stop coming. The fires... countless fires burned across the township, for blocks, for miles. These fires revealed a surreal scene of carnage and destruction." His words grew louder. "Soweto burned. Black smoke shrouded Soweto. That smoke... that smoke drifted toward Johannesburg and cast its terrible shadow over that great city. That smoke, it declared... no, it thundered! That black smoke of terror demanded that change come." He allowed his welling tears to fall but worked hard not to allow those tears to turn into sobs, uncontrollable sobs that had too often marred his nights since June 16.

With tears weaving down his cheeks, Dumisani went on, "I tell you, South Africa shall never be the same. Embers were ignited, and now the flames are unstoppable. These flames will only burn more fiercely as long as the fuel remains. Protests are growing. Young Blacks are realizing the time has come to demand... no, the time has come to bring change." Dumisani stopped, and more tears trickled down his cheeks.

Silence enveloped the room. Their guests sat looking down at the table. Chad felt uncomfortable with the silence, with the tears, with the reality of the scene that had been thrust upon his mind's eye, and uncomfortable with the veiled call to invest in something other than himself. He excused himself and went to the bathroom.

Roger rose and stood behind Dumisani and put his hands on his shoulders. "Thank you, Dumisani. _Ngiyabonga_ _chana_." Roger looked at Peter and said, "Whites, too, have been stirred by June 16, awakened to the tragedy and the ugliness that is apartheid. It is time to join with the Blacks, lest we end up destroying what we – Blacks and Whites together – love. Lest this great country of ours be lost."

Chad returned and stood by the window.

Roger said, "Soweto is a senseless tragedy we must now make sense of... by bringing about the end of apartheid. Next Saturday, some churches are joining together for a workday in Soweto, helping to spruce up one of the schools and deliver some school supplies. How about you two joining us? It would be an experience."

Chad answered quickly, "Yeah, that would be great, but we're booked up. We've got—"

Peter interrupted, "But we can check and see if we can arrange that."

Chad shot Peter a quizzical glance.

Peter ignored Chad's silent communication and continued, "We'll let you know. It might be a cool thing to do."

Peter's use of that inane word mortified Chad, given the present company and the substance of the afternoon. He was also surprised and angered by Peter's rush to accept the invitation.

Dumisani drove the visitors back to Vanderbijlpark. They rode in silence, avoiding the usual corny jokes, lame puns, and sarcastic remarks they always employed to pass time or avoid the tension of awkward moments. They left Dumisani to himself while they tried to keep the nightmarish images of June 16 out of their own heads.

***

Simon had afternoon tea brewing when Peter and Chad arrived home. "Good God! It's too hot for tea, Ole Bean," Chad said as Simon handed him a cup of tea, milk with one sugar.

"Oh," Simon winked. "It will help you cool down. You see, the hot water raises your internal temperature, thus enabling your body to adjust to the external temperature."

Chad laughed, "That may be one of the most absurd rationalizations I have ever heard. That is a myth your English ancestors created to justify their unnecessary but habitual custom of having an afternoon cup of hot tea in the middle of Africa."

Peter said, "Definitely the dumbest idea I have ever heard."

" _Ag_. Say what you will. I find it to be true through personal experience." Simon sipped his steaming tea and gave out a satisfying sigh. "And? How was your day? How did you find the Grace Church? How was your time with good Roger?" The odd inflection Simon used in these questions evoked a feeling in both that they had done something wrong.

Chad responded, pronouncing each word with finality, indicating he did not wish to elaborate on his day, "Fine... interesting... and tiring."

Simon responded, "Annnd?" His look and tone demanded elaboration.

"Well, I was surprised to see Bantus in the church," Peter said. "I didn't think that was... well, legal."

Simon laughed. "There are a few White churches that have Bantus in attendance. They would be welcomed by many churches, except perhaps the Dutch Reformed Church, which is very Afrikaner. But it is difficult for most churches to have Blacks among the congregation. Many would find it... well, objectionable. Then again, Africans are more comfortable in their own churches, where they can express themselves in ways that address their culture and their understanding of faith."

Peter asked, "This is what puzzles me. Why would Bantus, natives, want to believe in Christianity anyway? Think about it. It's the colonists, the missionaries who forced it on them. If I was a Black African, I would have nothing to do with the White man's religion."

Simon laughed. Chad looked at Peter with a glare that suggested he was more of a fool than he thought. Simon responded, "Perhaps, Peter, your God is too small. Think about what you just said. That, my dear brother, is actually very – well, I hate to say it – very small minded indeed."

"No it's not," Peter whined.

"Think about it, Peter. You have reduced Christian faith to something quite small and frail. You're suggesting Christianity is simply a White man's creation. If that were all it is, it would be absolutely useless to us and anyone else. The colonists only passed on what they had embraced about the Hebrew God and the Jewish concept of a Messiah. Our Africans here don't believe in a White man's God, but in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Their God, their Messiah is Black. Peter, God transcends the color of skin."

Peter shook his head. "More nonsense, Simon. That doesn't make sense to me. If I was a Bantu, I would have nothing to do with a White man's—"

Chad threw his hands up and groaned. "Peter, shut up! Please be quiet. Simon, what is your take on the fallout of June 16? I mean, how do you see it? These riots and stuff, does it worry you?"

Simon leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and shook his head. "Blacks are, of course, upset and demanding change. However, such anger always subsides. Nothing much can come of such things. The government will handle it. And obviously, any problems are now very isolated."

"Roger preached that the Whites should be involved, pushing for the end to apartheid and working for majority rule. What do you think? Should Whites be doing more, working with Bantus more?" Peter asked, leaning closer to Simon to gauge his response carefully.

Simon finished his cup of tea and filled his cup from a teapot shaped like a cat, which someone had given him as a joke one Christmas. Chad spoke as Simon added milk to his cup, "That, I think is ridiculous. It would be undermining what they have here, what they've already built. No one thinks Black rule is a good thing right now."

Peter looked at Chad out of the corner of his left eye. "Good God, Chad! You sound like a flipping Afrikaner. Is that what you think, Simon?"

Simon's reply was. "I think the Blacks have much learning to do, growing, maturing, in order to accomplish what is desired. I think we have to allow them to do that, and I am happy to do so, but this will take time – a lot of time. Do I believe there is a revolution coming? No. I don't. And no, I do not believe it is our place to push or encourage such things at this moment in time."

"When then? When is the right time for Black rule in your country?" Peter retorted.

Simon became somewhat incredulous. "Not soon, not soon. We must ensure that the country remains strong and proud. I shall deal with the future when it comes, and I pray it comes in the right way. But soon? No." He glanced at the time. "Now, it's getting on. Shouldn't you two be preparing for tonight's youth service?"

Peter and Chad took the hint and went to the bedroom to go over their plans for the Sunday evening youth group. Chad started talking about Sarah. Peter lay on his bed and shut out the inane chatter of his friend. He quickly dozed off.
CHAPTER 11

Soweto Revisited

Late one Sunday night, as Chad lay motionless and sleepless in bed, the words flashed in his mind: _It's time_. _The friendship can now become what it is destined to be_. _The time is now_. He had no doubt whatsoever that at that very moment, Sarah was lying in her bed experiencing the exact same revelation.

Chad's only concern was Johan Van den Berg. Sarah once said in passing, "Dad would go over the top if I married someone who's not an Afrikaner. Marrying a foreigner would mean a family split. Marrying an American would reignite the Boer War."

Chad dismissed the comment as hyperbole and nothing more. He simply laughed and assumed her laughter confirmed that she was being 'over the top.' After her laughter subsided, he told her, "Soon you'll turn eighteen. You can make your own decisions then. Yep, when you turn eighteen, that's the magic day." In response, she looked down at her feet and allowed a sheepish smile to grow.

***

On Tuesday, Peter decided he would go to Soweto – he should, he must. The haunting images of June 16 urged him to pay homage, tribute, or something to the slaughtered sons and daughters of South Africa.

When he told Chad they should go, Chad's response was immediate, with not one second for contemplation: "I know enough. I don't need to see it."

After three further attempts to convince him he should go, Peter told Chad he would go without him. He assumed that would show Chad just how important this was to him and Chad would accompany him simply because he was his friend.

Chad responded curtly if not cruelly, "That's cool. You go. I ain't going! Stop asking."

Peter called Roger. He hesitantly stated he was interested in joining the church project. "But I'm not sure how I can get there," he said, hinting for a lift.

"That is not a problem, mate," Roger said, showing no surprise in his interest. He did show some surprise when Peter indicated Chad would not be coming. "Oh," he said.

Peter hung up. He had the distinct impression that Roger assumed that they would be joining them on Saturday – both of them. Peter realized Roger had overestimated his and Chad's concern for and commitment to world affairs. Roger would not have fathomed that both had opted out of caring for anything that required conviction, passion, and selflessness – albeit both for their own reasons. Roger would have taken it for granted that they came to South Africa with a keen awareness of and a deep concern for the atrocity of apartheid and the plight of the Africans. He would have assumed that a desire to stand in solidarity against such oppression drew them to his country. Peter was sorry and embarrassed that neither of these Americans could fulfill that supposed altruism.

***

Peter informed Simon of his Saturday outing. He thought Simon would be pleased and supportive, but Simon instead made a subtle effort to dissuade Peter from going, "That will make quite a long day for you. Have you considered it will not give you much time to prepare for Sunday?" He made a deliberate pause, then added, "And you understand it can be dangerous there. Whites are not particularly welcome in the townships."

Peter began to second-guess his decision, and by Friday morning, Peter had convinced himself that it was a foolish venture. _Chad's right. It's not worth the time, the effort. It's not anything I need to be worrying about. Why raise my anxiety by doing something I don't have to do?_

He called Roger's place, and Dumisani answered. "This is Peter. Is Roger there... Oh, I'm fine... No, no message... Yes, yes I am looking forward to it very much as well... That's okay... Just checking about tomorrow. It is eight, right? Yes, thank you... No, just tell him I called... No, eight's no problem... Thank you...Yes, yes, I am too... Thanks."

Sleep evaded Peter that Friday night. He berated himself for not speaking up and relaying to Dumisani his intended. As the night wore on, his anxiety kept building. He worked hard to convince his body to relax. He prayed ferociously that a panic attack would not rear its hideous head. By dawn, he was exhausted.

***

"Peter, tell me about your life in America. Tell me the story of your family." Dumisani invited Peter to share as they began their journey to Soweto.

Peter looked at the African and saw eager and curious eyes and a smile that seemed so innocent and so accepting. Peter gave prolonged answers at first because he wanted to avoid any probing into his political views, such as his assessment of apartheid and South Africa's racist government. However, as he continued to talk, he forgot these fears and rambled on about himself and his family with more candor, even intimacy, than he imagined himself capable of offering. He talked about his parents, his sisters, and even his unrequited love. For the first time ever, he talked about his secrets: anxiety, panic attacks, and a darkness that had shrouded his adult life.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Peter felt oddly comfortable, at ease. He felt connected to this Black man with the harsh face and disarming smile. He also felt disappointed and ashamed that he had made little attempt to learn more about Dumisani and his life. He promised himself that he would ask the questions the next time he had the opportunity to do so.

***

As they drove down the unpaved streets of Soweto, Peter knew he had entered a different world; this was not the South Africa he had grown to love. All he could see were small shanty houses, block after block, mile after mile. Most had tin roofs and flimsy corrugated tin walls, no larger than a two-car garage. Few trees populated the dusty terrain. There were no lawns, no green grass. A few homes had small, but proud flowerbeds, which seemed lonely and out of place.

Turning down another street with rows of identical, tiny shacks, Dumisani said, "It is sad, but too often two, three, or even four families may reside in one of these homes. See them? Getting water over there? Ten or twelve houses will have to use just one of those water faucets. And electricity is so scarce. Few houses have that luxury."

"How many live here in Soweto?"

"Half a million. Can you believe that? Ten square miles with over half a million African souls."

"Why? Why do they live here?"

Dumisani laughed loudly, causing Peter to feel naïve. When his laughter faded, he said, "They live here because they are told to live here. They are told they may not live in the cities and towns... _they_ are for Whites only. Our dear government cares little about this place or the people in it. It does as little as it can to help them survive. They do not care. They only care that the Blacks do not encroach on their world. They only care that the Blacks do what they are told to do. They only care that Black men and women come to serve them, do the jobs they are _too good_ to do, and then demand they disappear. Look around you, Peter. This is apartheid. That is why they live here."

As they drove through the township, Peter took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Soweto. The stench of rotting garbage came when the breeze picked up and overpowered the smell of burning fires cooking fresh poultry. The streets were crowded; laughing children ran back and forth, weary moms worked to corral distracted children as they balanced pots of water, wood, or groceries on their heads. Along back streets, furtive teenagers talked, flirted, and laughed. Young children played soccer in the side streets.

"Look there, Peter," Dumisani said, pointing to a house that was indistinguishable among the thousands. "There is the home my family lived in for five years." A grin grew but then slipped into a frown, "After the events of June, the government told me to move. ' You are to go this township,' they said. 'You are to live now in the township of Tsakane.' That is a township east of Johannesburg. My family is now in Temba, a township in Bophuthatswana, north of Pretoria. I am fortunate we are no further apart. They do not think twice about separating families."

"But why did they make you move?"

Dumisani's eyes widened. He spoke with obvious pride. "I am known to speak my mind, Peter. They are afraid to let us speak our minds. They did not want me in Soweto because I would challenge the young to think for themselves and I would encourage them to hope. They want no more hope in Soweto. I am not to be here today, but I do not care."

Arriving at the school, Peter saw dozens of Blacks and a few Whites buzzing around, busy unloading two rented vans crammed with desks, chairs, school supplies, and even brand new school uniforms. Excited children swarmed the vans and their White visitors, helping them unload their new treasures, exuberant to see their school upgraded.

Peter joined the work force, grabbing boxes, desks, and whatever was handed to him. Happy faces surrounded him, welcoming him into their world. When they heard his accent, they were curious about this foreigner from America. They asked all kinds of questions about the cinema, about movie stars, and about life in Oklahoma, "Do you speak English or American there? Are the cowboys and Indians still there?" Many spoke English, but when not talking to the Whites, they spoke their own tongue, largely KwaZulu. More than most townships, Soweto included a mix of tribes with their own languages, though Zulu remained the most used by far.

After the vans were unloaded, Peter pitched in to help with the cleaning and painting of classrooms. He wondered if the Blacks thought it odd to have these Whites laboring side by side with them. He wondered if it would stir anger and remind them of their forced servitude, remind them that they were being treated as less than equal, even less than human. Peter realized they no doubt lived day to day, moment to moment, in the reality of apartheid and all its ugliness.

After hours of satisfying, sweat-inducing labor, a bell rang, and they gathered for lunch. All shared the bread and cheese, the ample fruit and squash, brought by many. Then, they called out to God, praying for the church that shared so generously, crying out for their community and their country, and imploring God to grant safety, peace, and change.

The day ended with a loud, passionate celebration of life. Using God's gift, they sang as only Africans can – with beautiful and mysterious harmonies wrapped in haunting minor keys, accentuated by hypnotic driving rhythms. This music ignites one's soul and empowers communities to defy struggle, tragedy, and oppression. In its celebration of life, this music calls forth a spirit that renews hope and faith. This heavenly choir mesmerized Peter and touched a heart that for so long had been out of reach.

CHAPTER 12

The Little Man in the Mustang

Chad's anger mounted each time Peter approached him about going to Soweto. By the end of the week, his anger verged on rage. If Peter had asked one more time, Chad may well have exploded on him. In reality, he never would have joined Peter in that escapade; an enticing bribe, a heartfelt entreaty, or a life ending threat – none could have swayed him. Days before, he had made his own plans for that Saturday; the time had come.

Late Saturday morning, Chad borrowed Simon's bike. Sarah's parents would be on their usual Saturday errands, and with the favorable weather, Johan would be joining his workmates to play a round of golf.

Lisa opened the door. "What do you want, you damn Yankee?"

"I've come to ask you to marry me. What do you say?"

She sneered and snapped. "You're so full of _kak_." Then, with exaggerated yearning, she whined, "I'm still waiting for Peter to ask me. I shall wait and wait, forever if I must. Sarah's in the shower, so you may as well be on your way. There's nothing here for the likes of you."

"You best enjoy my presence now, for you may never see the likes of me again."

"And that would be a bad thing?" Lisa laughed. She then said in a most serious tone, "You really shouldn't be here."

"Maybe, but here I am. Where is Sarah?"

"Too busy for you."

Sarah appeared, wrapped up in a pink towel with a matching one wrapped around her hair like a pink turban. She did not blink when she saw Chad at the door. "You going to leave him stranded at the door, Miss Piggy?" Not that Lisa had the figure that elicited such a nickname, rather because she insisted on wearing her hair in pigtails every day of her life.

Chad froze as his eyes fixed on Sarah. He felt like a wondering child staring at a Christmas present, resisting the insatiable urge to tear the wrapping paper off, but on the verge of giving in to the temptation to peel back the packaging, just a bit, to take a peek.

"Let me get dressed," Sarah said as she went off to her bedroom.

Lisa declared with a now serious and forceful tone, "You shouldn't be here! You really better go!"

Sarah shouted from her room. "Shut up, Miss Piggy!"

Lisa rolled her eyes and stated she had to finish writing a letter. "I have this pen pal in England. She used to live next door. They moved back because of all the stuff going on. Her parents are chickens, running back to England."

Chad perceived a distinct hint of jealousy in the last sentence.

Sarah took more time than needed to throw on jeans and a shirt. She returned wearing a red blouse, buttoned only three-quarters of the way to the collar, and a short white skirt with slits on the side.

Chad's spirit soared, and his confidence was emboldened. _Oh yes,_ _she's dressed to impress._ He had rehearsed his speech countless times. He would state unequivocally that it was time their relationship progress to something more.

Sarah looked at his confident face and said, "I haven't much time, but it's nice to see you. I'm going out now now."

His spirit and confidence plummeted, but he managed to hide his disappointment. "It's a great day to go to the river, sit around, and talk a bit. Maybe we could take a picnic."

"That'd be great, but—"

Before her next word came, the obnoxious roar of an oversized engine turned both heads toward the living room window. Chad recognized the smooth beating of the V-8 motor immediately. His cousin had driven one, a sixteenth birthday present that he managed to total just two weeks later. The imported cherry red, 1969 M Series Mustang convertible, with its envied Cleveland 251, 290-HP engine vibrating, settled in front of the house.

A diminutive, but well-built young man with jet-black hair nearly on his shoulders jumped out and strutted toward the front door. There was no mistaking who it was; this was the illusive bodybuilder.

_Not that impressive_ , Chad thought. _Obviously, the man's obsession with muscles and imported sports cars is a result of the little-man syndrome. He's just a pitiful little man striving to overcome his self-loathing as an undersized human being._

Chad watched him swagger toward the house, and he quickly threw his words out, "I thought he was... I thought you..."

"No. Well, not ex—"

The door opened, and the man barged through the door as if he was arriving home after a day's work. He spoke with what Chad perceived as feigned self-importance. " _Wie is dit,_ Sarah?"

Sarah responded, " _Dit is die_ Chad, _die_ _Amerikaanse. Ontspan_. Chad, this is Philip. Philip, this is Chad."

Philip studied Chad's eyes. " _Waarom die hel is hy hier_?"

_At least_ _she's told him something about me. He knows he has something to be jealous about._ That thought fueled slight hope but also triggered some anxiety in Chad.

"No reason, Philip. He is just a friend. _Moenie enige probleme veroorsaak nie, asseblief. Jy kan mooi wees_. Okay?"

Chad extended his hand. " _Hoe gaan dit met yo_?" His attempt at the Afrikaans greeting evoked only a dead stare. He tried again. "It's good to meet you, Philip, a pleasure."

Chad's hand remained on offer. The Afrikaner finally grasped it and squeezed hard; Chad refused to flinch.

With a triumphant grin, Philip said, "We're going now. See you around." The words were declared as a warning, not a pleasantry.

As he whisked her through the door, Sarah blurted out that they were going off to Johannesburg to go ice-skating with friends.

Chad's emotional bubble imploded with that morsel of information. He said, "Oh," and then, with his head held high, he walked through the door and went to his bike, which was resting on the hedge in front of the house. He nodded at Philip, who was staring his way. In his heart, a scream of desperation begged to come out.

Chad pulled the bike around to face the street. He could only imagine what the driver of the Mustang would be saying to Sarah as he watched him mount Simon's pre-war girl's bicycle with its pink basket hanging from the handlebars. His foot was on the peddle, ready to push off when Sarah ran back up to the house.

"Forgot my bag," she said with a wink and whispered under her breath, "My birthday's next week. We'll do something."

She was in and out in a flash. Another wink came as Chad peddled past the Mustang and Sarah took her place next to the one Chad had thought was the _ex-boyfriend_.

Chad rode off, dreading what would now be an endless Saturday of wondering what had just transpired. Questions taunted him: _Is she playing two guys at once? Am I reading the signals wrong? Is she just a flirt, a female addicted to teasing guys?_

He determined to cling to hope. _The roly-poly bastard is certainly not good enough for her, even if he is runner-up to Mr. South Africa._ He would see her the next day and tell her what he felt. _Tomorrow. She will have to decide where this relationship will go and where that squatty-bodied Boer bodybuilder wannabe will go._

***

The three savored Simon's traditional Saturday meal of eggs, sausage, and chips. Peter and Chad ate slowly. Peter was desperate to talk about his day and waited patiently for someone to ask about it, but neither did. He lined up his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it to the side of the table. "I had an amazing day."

Chad had just finished his last bit of sausage. He sighed, and his leg started bouncing under the table. Under his breath he muttered, "Here we go."

Simon rested his chin on his hands and said, "Tell us then."

Peter did his best to captivate them with the smells, the sounds, the joy, the excitement of his adventure. He recounted the scenes with all the vividness he could conjure: helping at the school, painting and cleaning, playing soccer with the kids, sharing the meal, learning some Zulu phrases, and of course, the music. He oozed more enthusiasm than Chad had seen in two years of friendship. Then he moved to his editorial comments about the disgusting and degrading situation the government was forcing the Africans to live in. Peter's enthusiasm gave way to a passion that was out of character, a passion that caused even Simon to squirm and fidget.

Peter assumed this glimpse of reality would evoke sympathy and empathy. Not only was he disappointed, but he was also very hurt. At the end of his discourse, Simon said in a very matter-of-fact manner, "Peter, unfortunately apartheid is a necessary evil that helps the country. It helps all the people. It does keep peace – among the tribes and peace for us all. It is not good, but it is what it is."

Chad responded with the confidence any White South African. "Yeah, it keeps warring tribes at bay. Everyone is taken care of. You want this country to be thrown into a terrorist war like Rhodesia?"

Peter's eyes narrowed as he bit his lower lip. Then he exploded. "That's bullshit! Goddamn bullshit! The Whites just choose to ignore the reality of what's going on. They ignore it because they don't want to see it. Dumisani is right. The Whites are just out to protect the world they created. You really don't see that? How can you be that blind?"

Simon responded in a calm tone, exuding a confidence that he possessed more knowledge and understanding than this foreigner. "I disagree with a lot of what the National Party does, but it's complicated, Peter. It's not fixable by anger, by revolution, or by do-gooders."

Peter began to feel uneasy with the intensity of his own emotions, feelings that seemed to be driving him to attack his friends. He stood up and looked at his friends, searching for words that would be more powerful; none were found. He walked out the back door and slammed it shut.

Simon and Chad ignored the silent declaration of anger. They simply shook their heads at one another and poured another cup of tea.

"It's this Roger, isn't it?" Chad asked, expecting no answer. "I think he's mesmerized by that posh English accent and his overbearing manner," Chad said.

Simon replied, "I'm afraid Peter is failing to see the complexity of the precarious moment in this nation's history, but don't condemn his passion. It's good to see a little fire in his eyes."

"Geez, give me a bucket of water. It needs to be put out."

Simon laughed, sipped more tea, and asked, "And your day?"

Simon chuckled throughout Chad's description of his meeting with Philip. When Chad mentioned his plan for the next day, Simon replied, "A fine idea. You need to get on with it or get over it, lest this become a distraction from your work with the church. Dad's mentioned his concern."

"It's not and will not be a distraction, Simon. Don't worry."

***

Peter hoped he had slammed the back door with force enough to declare the depth of his anger. He stood looking up into the sky searching for the Southern Cross. Warring emotions inside his belly fought for dominance: hurt and disappointment needed to be honored with quiet tears; anger and indignation demanded he go in and give them a piece of his mind; frustration told him to just scream out into the night – to scream something, anything mean and foul.

"Master! I am sorry, I will go to my room."

"Shit! Oh God! You startled me, Themba. No. Gee, I'm sorry. And what have I told you?"

" _Ja_. Peter, not Master. Peter, I will go to my room." Themba sat on a stool outside her room sipping _rooibos_ tea – a South African herbal tea with a strong aroma and a bittersweet, nutty taste that many find somewhat unpleasant. Those who drink it adamantly proclaim this bush tea is a cure-all, from strengthening bones and teeth to relief from stress and irritability, even offering protection against cancer.

All Peter could see was the whites of two eyes and the gleam of a smile illumined by the light of the half-moon. It took Peter's retinas another moment to dilate and bring into focus her warm, gentle face – round, with full lips, a wide nose, and eyes large and brown; eyes that reflected an innocent determination to never let go of the joy of life.

Peter said, "Nonsense. Let me sit here with you under the stars while you enjoy your tea. I will not accept no for an answer _._ "

" _Dankie_. May I serve you a cup of my red bush tea? It is fresh brewed."

"That would be cool... _lekker_."

Themba went into her room and quickly returned with an oversized blue tin cup. Her red bush tea filled the air with its unique aroma – an odor the uninitiated would find pungent. With a gratified nod, she said, "This will be very good for you. You will sleep like a small child tonight."

"Thank you. That's great." Peter sipped from his tin cup, looking at Themba, impressed again by her kind smile and trusting eyes. "Themba, how do you... I don't know... how can you stand to live so far from your family? I mean ... how do you handle it, deal with it? I don't understand. How you can live this way?"

Themba chuckled politely. She paused, holding a thoughtful gaze she said, "We do what we must do, my family and I."

"But surely you miss your children, your husband."

"Every moment, but they are with me in here, and I am with them." She pointed to her heart, then her head. "They shall never leave me. I know my children are safe with my family. I know, too, they will work hard at school and do very well for themselves. I am very proud of them."

"Tell me about them."

"Goodness! Well, my Nelson is oldest. He is twelve. My husband named him after Nelson Mandela – after Mandela was gone to prison. My husband dreamt the day our son was born that he too would be a great man, a man that will encourage and bring hope like Mandela. He is a patient boy. Every night, he demands to read to his sisters and brothers. He wants to help them learn. He says he wants to be a teacher. Last week, my Nelson was scolded at school for stealing another child's lunch. After he came home, his naughty brother said he had taken the food. Nelson took the blame so his brother would not get the beating. I was very cross with Nelson, because he must let his brother be – oh, what is the right word? – take his own punishment. Nelson said he would rather take the beating and teach his brother what is right. That is Nelson. His heart is very good, maybe too good sometimes."

"Can a heart be too good?"

"A heart cannot be too good, but a good heart needs much wisdom if that heart is not to be broken too much. My Nelson, he will grow in his wisdom. He will be a fine man. Now my youngest, Andrew, is only four, but oh my, he thinks he is older! He talks and talks. At dinner, we tell him, 'Andrew, you must be more quiet so others may speak,' but he still talks and talks. We tell him again, 'Now you are to be quiet.' He will be quiet for a moment and then stand on his chair and shout, 'I am trying to be quiet, but inside me I am screaming!'"

Themba told more stories of her children. They laughed together at how children are children. When Peter asked about her husband, she said, "He is a good man. He works hard to please his boss." She sighed, adding, "It is too hard to be apart so long. It hurts a family, Peter. It hurts a marriage. It is hard for husbands to be faithful in this way we must live. I do not like that, but I understand it."

"You must... I think I would hate White people if I had to live as you have to."

Themba smiled again, her eyes gleaming with determination. "We do hate the way things are, and we long for it to stop. We pray for it to end. We hate the bad laws that make our lives hard and that make hatred between Blacks and Whites. But Peter, we know we stand with our ancestors, and with them, we must honor what is good, what is right. What is right is that we do right. Black or White or Indian or Colored, we all live together in this world. We share this world. If I hate you, I hate myself. If I hurt you, I hurt me. If I kill you, I kill a piece of me. We call this _ubantu_. I do not want to hate Whites, for then I would hate me. I would hate all Africans. I do not want that. _Ubantu,_ Peter, _ubantu_. In our tradition, the most honor you may offer another is _Yu, u nobuntu._ It says such a person has this good spirit, this _ubantu_. It is our belief in _ubantu_ that tells us not to hate and says to work hard to live together. _Ubantu_ invites us to help one and the other, not to destroy the other."

Peter went back inside, fixed cups of cocoa for his friends, and apologized for being a _jerk_.
CHAPTER 13

The Time Has Come

Both Chad and Peter had insisted that they needed to meet, needed to talk; neither Sarah nor Cindy knew what to anticipate as they settled into separate booths at Jackson's that evening.

Chad attempted to interpret Sarah's pensive mood. She seemed to become more of an enigma with each successive encounter. He prided himself in manipulating what he had labeled 'the desperate sex'; it had been his gift and challenge. Sarah was different though. He so wanted to understand her, to know her, to love her. He had debated long and hard how he should approach her after the debacle on Saturday. He still had not decided. After placing their order, he said, "Look at those two. Peter looks like a lost meerkat that wants to run away."

Sarah leaned over and quietly said, "He always does. What do you think he wants to talk about with Cindy? Did he tell you anything?" Strange excitement accentuated her last question.

Chad leaned over and with a very concerned tone whispered, "Peter is going to tell her he's a homosexual. Shhh!"

Sarah's mouth dropped as Chad nodded with pressed lips, confirming it was indeed true. She became flushed and said, "Cindy is going to be devastated, just devastated. She'll be... well, more than devastated... She'll be..." She could not find the right word.

Chad spoke, "Really? I didn't know she... well, that she liked him. Not like that anyway."

"You are blind then. She is insanely, annoyingly wild over him. You are taking the mick, aren't you?"

"Not about that. I mean, I didn't see her getting so attached or whatever. But, yeah about the gay bit, no. Not as far as I know anyway."

" _Ag nee_ _man_! I ought to slap you hard."

"Couldn't resist. But I have no idea why he's so keen on seeing her, and I don't really care, to be honest." He saw his chance to segue into his own agenda. "I don't know what's going on between you and what's-his-name – that wannabe Mr. World – but I am going to put my cards on the table, Sarah."

Sarah gave him a vacant look, as if she had never heard the expression.

He went on. "What I mean is, I need to get things out and see what's going on ... with us."

She put her finger on his lips. "Shh. Don't say it. Don't go there, Chad."

"I need to know. I don't want to play games. I am really, really ... well, I am insanely wild over you, Sarah. It may sound ridiculously sappy, but I think I could love you. I'm not saying I do – yet – but I think... I just want to see where this can go, could go, should go. I need to know where you stand. I need to know what you think, what you feel, what you want."

"Stop it. Don't do this."

"It's not a big deal, Sarah. It's a simple question with a simple answer, yes or no. 'Yes, Chad, I want more than just being friends' or 'No, Chad, we're just friends.' I can deal with it either way. I just need an answer. I need to know what's going on inside that pretty little head of yours."

"I don't know what you expect."

"Yes or no. That's all. Simple enough. You don't even have to say the words. Shake your head no, and we'll just be friends, and that's cool. Give me a nod, and my emotions are going to go wild because I know... I know I'm on the verge of falling uncontrollably in love with you."

"You are crazy."

"A shake or a nod. That's all I'm asking for, Sarah."

"But it's not that easy."

"It is. Shake or nod. I can deal with either. I need to know. I just need to know."

"You don't... you really don't understand. It's—"

With both hands, Chad slowly moved her head, saying, "Shake... or nod. Yes... or no."

Sarah said nothing.

***

Peter and Cindy sat sipping drinks and picking at a half-empty bowl of potato chips. Cindy looked pleased, too pleased, Peter thought. He was uncomfortable with her green eyes beaming with such delight. She was expecting more than he had to give, more than was inside him.

He ignored any small talk. "I really like talking with you. It means a lot. It's been good to have someone that listens. I... well, I just appreciate it. Thanks, Cindy. Thanks for being around."

Peter said this with as little emotion as possible, but her eyes grew even larger, even greener. She went from being pleased to radiant. _God, I said it all wrong. Damn, what was I supposed to say? This is stupid, Peter. Just say it. Just clarify things. She's just a good friend, and that's all it is. Tell her that's all it will ever be. Damn it, just tell her._ He opened his mouth, paused, and then put a potato chip in it.

Cindy smiled. "I know. I feel the same. It's been good, great. I feel good... really good about us."

Peter glanced at her twinkling eyes; the deep jade reflected a boundless anticipation. He looked down at the table and ate another chip. When he looked up, his eyes fixed upon her hair, those frizzy red locks. He was overwhelmed once again by a head of hair that cruelly demanded attention. He blinked his eyes twice, shook his head slightly, and looked at her again. All he saw was the red hair, the red lips, the red nails, all clashing together into a disturbing visual cacophony. He tried to chase this intrusive impression away. He tried to search again for words, the right words, but his brain refused to offer any assistance. A wave of anxiety produced a fairy tale wish that he could return to the beginning of the evening and start the conversation again but the infamous awkward moment lingered forever.

Cindy appeared to cherish the quiet moment as she continued, "I think we've always had a good connection. You're the first bloke I've been able to open up to, feel comfortable with. My dad... well, you know. I think about him and wonder how I can ever trust any man again. I've always kept guys an arm's length away. Even the few I did like ... well, I ended up pushing them away. And I admit I have used a few. But I never trusted any of them. Not one. But you, Peter, are someone I can trust, and I needed that."

"Yeah, I suppose it's the same for me, only for different reasons. I got hurt, got stuck, and shut everyone out. It's good, refreshing, even amazing to open up with a girl or a woman, whatever you are. It's been good, real good for me, but, Cindy, I..." The words were now there ...but _it can never be anything more. I'm sorry, but there is no physical attraction, no romantic desire, no feelings, no emotions, only a wonderful friendship._ "... But..." He filled his lungs, ready to speak.

Before the words found breath, she took his hands, squeezed them tight, and looked into his eyes, into his guarded soul. Both smiled. Peter began talking about his experiences of the past week. He talked about Soweto and the Africans he had met; he shared about his anger and bewilderment that Simon and Chad did not _get it;_ then he recounted Dumisani's story about June 16.

She listened. Both became tearful as he described the pain he'd seen in Dumisani's eyes as he had relived the horrific tragedy of schoolchildren slaughtered. She understood, and she cared. Cindy was a friend. Then, still holding hands, he realized he would still have to tell her that a friend is all she would be – but not tonight.

***

Chad thought he had approached Sarah in a clear, straightforward manner, giving her the option to say, "Yes, let's get on with it" or "No way. Let's just be friends." He could live with either, eventually. Her silence, however, was a cruel and unusual punishment. After he held in his frustration for as long as he could, he finally said, "I don't get it. If we're to be friends, that's fine – even wonderful. But if I'm right about my feelings, my gut... well, I just need to know. I don't want to play the fool if you don't feel the same. But everything inside me tells me you feel exactly the way I do."

For an extended moment, Sarah looked at Chad with pleading eyes. Then she looked down and said, "It's unfair, I know, but it's complicated. Please don't make it hard."

Chad clenched his fist and barely caught himself from pounding the table. "I don't believe that! If it is what I think, and if this is what you think, we go for it. We see what grows, what develops, and we deal with whatever happens. If it is right, meant to be, nothing else matters."

"You'll have to live with a shrug for now, Chad. I'm sorry. Please don't pressure me," Sarah said. "I have a lot to think about, a lot of feelings to sort out."

Chad detected a mixture of hurt, frustration, and growing irritation in her look and tone. He took the warning to heart and backed off. "So it's not a no, but a maybe? You need time, and I respect that. I'm used to jumping into these things, but I want this to be right, perfect. However, Sarah, well... if nothing more, I want to be friends. If that's all it ever is, great. Really. But—"

"No buts."

"Yeah, you're right. No buts. However, if it's that bodybuilder... hell, I'll fight him for you, winner take all. Just tell me when and where. I'll fight him to the death. You'd be worth it."

"That's charming. It's a lot of things, and yes, he's one."

"For what it's worth – and I am being very, very subjective here – "

"Riggght."

"No, really. I say it confidently, as a friend, not a potential lover. He is not your type. He just isn't right for you, Sarah. And we could get Peter and Cindy over here to take a vote. I bet my life it would be unanimous."

"That's okay. Trust me, Chad, it's complicated. It just is."

Chad nodded. He pretended to be carefree the rest of the evening but remained frustrated to the depths of hell; he could not understand this furtive, beautiful, enticing, irresistible young woman.

***

Hands still entwined, Peter and Cindy left for the car. A pastor once told Peter that affairs start with innocent touching of the hands, and then it moves on to touching thighs, to prolonged embraces, to passionate kisses, and ultimately to complete intimacy. The pastor would have known; years later it surfaced that he had had a long string of affairs in his church. _No, I can't have that. I will have to apologize, make sure things are clear. I must do it... next time._

They arrived at the car holding hands.

"What's this?" Chad gloated.

"Well, well," Sarah said with a twinkle in her eyes.

Cindy smiled coyly, and Peter felt a concrete block turning in his stomach.

***

"What about your birthday?" Chad asked before he shut the car door in front of Simon's home.

"I'll call you."

Chad asked, "Are you sure?"

Sarah's head tilted and she rolled her eyes, winked, and drove off.

"Damn it! She doesn't have to leave me hanging like that." Chad's angry tone indicated he would be taking his frustration out on Peter and Simon for the next hour.

Before they reached the door, Sarah backed the car up and yelled, "The four of us, Friday at seven, ice skating, Jo'berg!"
CHAPTER 14

Just a Human Being

Peter wobbled around the skating rink, certain that all eyes remained fixed on him. Giggling and chattering nonstop, Cindy assisted him in his struggle to remain upright on the ice. As the night wore on, she became more affectionate, more adoring, causing Peter's guilt and shame to intensify. In the recesses of his brain, a debate raged. _Damn it! Tell her. Go get a drink, sit her down, and tell her... No. This isn't the time or place. That'd just be cruel... It's cruel not to tell her, to let her keep thinking that you... No. I'll do it another time. Do it NOW!... No, later... No, NOW!_ Toward the end of the evening, Peter said, "Let's go talk a minute."

They sat at a small round table in the corner of the skating rink's tiny café. Peter, looking at his iceless glass of Coke, said, "There's something I need to tell you." He looked up and gazed at her childlike smile.

Cindy said, " _Ja_?" She reached under the table and squeezed his knee.

"It's... it's just that... I really need to say something." He stopped and looked into her green eyes; eyes that revealed a heart full of naïve love and simplistic joy. "I'm glad you didn't wear your red lipstick and those red nails. I like you better without the extra... all that red."

"Oh, I see," she said, a bit embarrassed. "Why didn't you tell me you didn't like it? You should have told me before, silly."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's get back out there. I'm gonna get the hang of these skates if it kills me."

Sarah exuded confidence and brashness as she and Chad skated circles around one another. She teased and laughed. She was overjoyed, and rightfully so. After all, she had just turned eighteen, and the world was hers for the taking.

Chad had been waiting for this day; it was to be a magic day. However, as the evening went on, he noticed a foreign emotion distracting him. It was something he could not identify, could not verbalize. Was it disappointment, hurt, fear, helplessness, love, frustration? He wasn't sure. Perhaps it was a cocktail of all of them jumbled together, playing havoc with his mood and demeanor. It surprised Chad that Sarah did not appear to notice his rather pensive mood. He decided her adrenaline and endorphins made her oblivious to his personal turmoil; so he, too, tried to ignore his jumbled emotions and doubled his effort to treat her as a princess should be treated.

***

On their way back to Vanderbijlpark, traffic slowed to a stop. The line of cars extended for a mile or more. The inconvenience raised frustration, and complaints multiplied as time passed.

"God, I hate this!" Chad blurted out. "I feel like getting out and walking. What do you think it is? Probably damn road works. What'd you bet?"

"Could be a police checkpoint, looking for drunk drivers," Sarah said, and then moaned. "It's a pain."

"Hear that Peter? Could be the law! Better throw your joint out the window quick," Chad teased.

"You're so funny, Chad," Peter said, flicking the back of Chad's head.

"It's likely an accident. We have to be patient. There's nothing we can do, and somebody might be hurt or something. Hey, did you hear that?" The sound of approaching sirens confirmed Cindy's assessment.

Edging closer to the scene, they could see an individual lying on the shoulder of the road.

Cindy clicked her tongue and said. "Oh, dear. I hope he's not hurt badly."

Passing by the scene, they saw a mangled bike and a lifeless man on the pavement. A large pool of blood surrounded his crushed skull.

Chad, who had the clearest view, observed more details and said, "It's only a Kaffir."

Sarah quickly corrected him. "Bantu, not Kaffir. That's a terrible word. It is banned. Use Bantu. Better, use Black."

Chad nodded, and said, "Oh, yeah. Bantu."

Peter felt blood rush to his head. His hands started trembling. He started shaking his head.

Cindy put her hand on his knee and asked, "What's wrong? Are you okay? That was awful. God, just awful. Are you alright?"

Peter's words barely came out. "I'm fine, I'm fine." His hands continued to shake. He took slow, deliberate breaths to curtail a mounting wave of anxiety. After he filled his lungs a second time, he realized this emotion was not anxiety. It was anger; no, it was rage. He took several more deep breaths. With the gruesome scene far behind them, he let out a savage invocation, a primal shout. "Goddamn you, Chad! Damn you!"

"What the hell's your problem, Pete?" Chad asked, looking back at his countryman a confused expression.

Peter roared again, in a voice anyone in any passing car could have heard. "Did you hear what you just said? Do you even know what you said! My God, Chad! I can't believe it. I can't believe you could say such a thing!"

"What are you carrying on about, Pete? What is your problem?" Chad replied, now with anger in his tone.

"He's _only a Kaffir_? _He's only a Kaffir_! My God! He is a human being! Black, White, Colored, Indian – a human being! He's no different than you!"

"Jesus! Relax, man. I didn't mean anything. He was a Black guy. So what?"

"So what? So what! You've turned into a goddamn racist, a bigot! And the worst part is, you don't even know it."

Chad unleashed his anger, "Fuck you, Peter! Ever since we stepped off that plane, you've been on my freakin' nerves! You've turned into some kind of self-righteous, holier-than-thou, bitching bastard! Just shut the hell up!"

The women remained silent. Both gave their companions a look of shock. The two men looked away.

Peter stared out the window, counting the cars as they whizzed by, cars carrying White people because few Blacks owned cars, because Blacks did not have any business being out at that time of night. _That_ was not allowed. Peter's explosion of rage had shocked him as much as anyone. It came without the filter he always took such care to employ. However, he wasn't ashamed of his outburst. As far as he was concerned, he was right to be angry, and it was completely necessary and justifiable.

Chad gazed out the opposite window. He watched the lights of the city fading: a city vibrant and alive, a city that declared the greatness of this country. Peter deserved to be cursed. He would not be put down, assailed by another male, especially in front of females. He had done nothing of consequence, and Peter dared to treat him like a misbehaving child. He wasn't just going to sit by and let that happen.

It was a quiet ride home, and no one spoke a word of the verbal battle – not then, and not ever.

***

Soil covered Peter's hands and knees. He didn't notice the clumps of dirt in his hair and a smudge of mud on his forehead. This was his way to unwind: stolen moments without having to think or feel, moments when he could just _do_. Peter's distraction was planting bulbs and seeds and tending carefully to them. He would watch and wait patiently for young sprouts to appear and grow, for leaves to form and reach toward the sun, for buds to open and burst forth with their joyous colors. He knew that flowers would soon appear and offer their thanks to the one who cared enough to plant them, nurture them, and water them. They would give thanks to the one who cared enough to will them into existence. Peter was in the front yard pulling out pesky weeds that threatened his young and frail seedlings, cruel intruders anxious to steal nutriments, water, and promise.

A car pulled up to curb and settled right in front of Peter. Even though he had never met the man who emerged from the vehicle, he knew without a blink of the eye that this was the infamous bodybuilder, Chad's rival. _Oh boy!_ he thought. _This should be entertaining_. "Can I help you?"

Peter's polite invitation was ignored, as the man appeared not even to see him.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?"

Still no acknowledgement.

"What do you need?"

The visitor walked past him as if he was an apparition. The man pounded on the front door.

"Excuse me!" said Peter, giving him one more chance. He thought this man must be deaf or blind – or maybe both. Otherwise, there was no excuse for his impertinence.

Chad opened the door before Philip could knock a second time. He showed no response, no surprise, no fear, no concern. "Well, Philip. _Hoe gaan dit?_ This is an honor."

Philip blurted his words out in his strong Afrikaans accent, " _Ag_ _man_. Stay away. You stay away from her. Do you understand?"

Chad flashed a deliberate and exaggerated look of sympathetic concern. "Hmm. Perhaps we have a misunderstanding here. Come in and let's see if we can sort this out."

The American's response apparently disarmed Phillip. Without protest, he went inside and took a seat at Chad's request. Peter followed with balled-up fists and a red face.

Chad motioned to Peter to settle down. "You've not met my friend, Philip. This is Pete. He's a good guy."

Philip gave a quick glare Peter's way.

Peter bit his lip, shook his head, and said, "It's a bit rude where I come from to ignore someone like that."

"You? Doing what the Kaffirs do? There is no reason to show such a one any respect." Philip's words came out curtly.

Peter's fists balled up even tighter, and his face contorted as he stepped toward Philip.

Chad quickly intervened. "Hold on here, boys! Let's not mount the ole mare on the wrong side. Pete's okay. He just likes his flowers. Don't hold that against him. It helps him relax. And do excuse the dirty face – though actually, he looks a little better that way. Tell me, Philip, how much do you bench press? What, 500 pounds? What's that in kilograms? About 200?"

"I can press 230."

"Wow! That is impressive. How 'bout your squat? Let me guess... 270 kilos?

"More – 285."

"Geez! That's like over 600 pounds! Your dead lift?"

"I can do 339."

"Wow! How long have you been training?" Chad continued with feigned fascination and exaggerated amazement.

The miniature tank's breathing slowed as he began to soften like ice cream exposed to the African sun. "And you? I hear you are a cheerleader," Philip said snidely.

Chad ignored the implied insult that he was a girly-man. "Hey, it takes a lot of athleticism and guts to do cheerleading. It's not an easy feat to throw a girl six feet in the air and catch her. I started out in gymnastics in high school. I can't press 500 pounds, but my floor routine got first in regionals my senior year. Hey, you try this." Chad pushed the coffee table and two chairs aside and stood in the center of the living room. He took two deep breaths, jumped, pulling his knees to chest, whirled backwards, and planted his feet on the floor with a _thump_ that caused a lamp to shake. He wobbled slightly and said, "Oops. I've not done that for a while. Unlike you, I guess I am a bit out of shape."

Philip chuckled and clapped politely and said, "Not bad."

Chad went over and shook his hand. "Yeah, not bad at all. Well, I guess we need to talk about your Sarah. Philip, I want you to understand that she is indeed a good friend to me, a special girl. But you, my bru, indeed have yourself a very special young woman. Now don't you worry about my friendship with Sarah. It is what it is. You just need to go back to the girl and put the charm on. Treat her like a princess. Make her feel special. That's what she needs. You do that, and you don't have to worry about the likes of me or any other bozos that come along."

Philips spoke like a wounded puppy. "It has been... with her, it's been—"

"Hard work?"

" _Ja,_ man. It is. It has been hard work. Seems to get harder every week, every damn day. I don't know what is going on with her. I thought—"

"Ay, bru. No, no. It's not me. I assure you. You must go back to her and treat her well, like she deserves. A little romance is what she needs. And don't worry about me. I am a friend and nothing more. I assure you of that. Sarah is a great person. You... well, just be yourself. Impress her with who you are."

"Well, I apologize. I felt you were—"

"Nooo! I'm not trying anything. We're friends. We work on church stuff, and that's where it stands. Friends and coworkers, that's all it is." Chad patted Philip on the back and continued, "You go back and treat her right. She is worth the hard work, is she not? Things will be fine."

Philip smiled. " _Ja,_ man, you are right." He shook Chad's hand and left, walking past Peter without so much as a glance or a word.

"What a dumbass plank! And what the hell are you playing at?" Peter asked, watching Philip through the window as he hopped into his Mustang.

"Oh, don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing. And no, I have no respect for that muscle head. And if he treats you like that again, I'll assist you in beating the sun-dried snot out of him."
CHAPTER 15

Sharpeville

Peter received a call from Roger, inviting him to join an outreach on Saturday at the Sharpeville Township. It took no pondering. Peter immediately agreed and asked if Cindy could join them.

Roger said, "That would be lovely. Perhaps Chad may be interested?"

"Doubtful, but I'll ask him."

"Do indeed."

Cindy responded with enthusiasm to join the church outreach. Peter realized part of her excitement was fueled by the opportunity to be with him. She often expressed disappointment that their times together were too sparse and always too short. Peter hoped it would eventually occur to her that he was avoiding her; she seemed to assume he was just too busy. However, he did not want her to miss an excursion to the township. It would be an opportunity to interact with the Africa her nation's government kept hidden. He knew it would touch her heart and soul just as it had his.

In spite of Roger's request, Peter did not want to invite Chad. He feared the invitation would lead to an argument and stir veiled anger that would linger for the remainder of the day. He decided to simply tell him he was going and leave it at that. Peter was stunned when Chad said, "Maybe I'll give it a go."

Chad did not want to go with Peter to the township. If he received another offer for that day, he would snap it up without hesitation. In reality, he wanted to escape another Saturday alone. Too many hours over the past several days had been spent brooding over Sarah, pondering what was percolating in that perfectly shaped, half-Afrikaner head and second-guessing his uncanny advice to Philip. Increasingly, he feared his approach had indeed backfired.

No offers came that week. On Friday night he told himself, _It's okay._ _A day in a township couldn't be to awful. Could be a distraction._ _And it should satisfy Peter enough to stop the hounding. Save me from his infuriating newfound self-righteousness._

***

Gracious and smiling adults welcomed the dozen or so members of Roger's church as they began to unload boxes of various supplies. Soon they were surrounded by animated children clamoring for the visitors' attention. Several children cornered the two Americans and started teaching them a few Xhosa phrases. They insisted, in a patient and joyful manner, that Peter and Chad master the proper pronunciation of each word. This included the clicking of the tongue and the subtle tonal changes which makes Xhosa a wonderfully complicated and fascinating language. By the end of the day, they had mastered three phrases _:_ "Hello," "How are you?" and "Goodbye."

In midafternoon, Peter took a break and found some shade under a Jacaranda tree. He sat and observed. He chuckled as Chad attempted to teach the young boys the basics of American football, and he laughed loudly as the boys gave his friend a lesson in soccer, the true football of the world. It was as if Chad suddenly had two left feet.

Peter then watched Cindy as she played with the young children and mingled with their mothers. Oh _,_ how they loved that red hair! It was a novelty that brought laughter and amazement. Children and old women alike gathered around, asking permission to touch her odd and bewildering tresses. Peter watched this scene with a smile. He was impressed and challenged by her ability to engage with this foreign world. She did so with amazing ease, sporting a smile that beamed and eyes that gleamed. Peter admired the redheaded White girl, who had a heart and soul bent toward Africa's children.

***

They were nearly back at Vanderbijlpark when Peter asked Chad, "So? What do you think about your first introduction to the _real_ Africa?"

"It was okay. Fine," Chad replied with no emotion.

Peter's foot pushed the gas pedal down, jerking the occupants' heads back slightly. "Fine? What does that mean? 'Fine.'"

"It means _fine_. I liked it. I enjoyed it. It was fun. The kids were fun. It was fun. I'll just be glad to get back to my kids, back to Vandy and St. Stephens."

"I don't get it. It's the first damn time you've experienced the true Africa, and all you can say is, 'It's okay, fine'?"

"What do want me to say, Peter? Good God! It was fantastic! I didn't want to leave! Oh when can we go back? There. How is that? Is that what you wanted to hear? It was fine, Peter, but get me back to Vandy church. I'd rather be with them. So shoot me."

"You'd rather be with Sarah you mean. You would rather be there to pine after her. That's all you care about." Before the last sound left his lips, Peter realized just how much he sounded like a whiny child who hadn't gotten his way.

"Oh good God, Pete! I had a good day. Okay? Why isn't that good enough for you?"

Cindy spoke up. " _Ag nee_ _man_. We all had a great day, so let's just leave it at that and enjoy it for what it was. Peter, it's fine if Chad prefers the Vandy church. Don't begrudge him. And Chad, Peter gets excited about being around the Africans, so indulge him a bit. It was a great day for us and for them. So leave it as such."

Peter said, "It's Sarah, you know. She's the only thing that matters to him. If she's still snubbing him tomorrow at church, we'll all suffer the rest of the night."

"Peter!" Cindy's frown hurt Peter a bit more than Chad's inability to share his enthusiasm.

"No, you're right. It was a good day and need not be spoiled. Sorry, Chad."

Chad said nothing for a while, then leaned forward to Cindy's ear and said, "Cindy, dear, he was a little bit right about Sarah, but don't tell him I said that."

"Very well, good sir. Peter, you didn't hear that, did you?"

"Couldn't have. I thought he said I was right, and he'd never admit that, even if it's true."
CHAPTER 16

Breakdown?

At five a.m., the intrusive ring of a phone is intolerable and inevitably a preface to unwanted news. Nevertheless, Simon answered. Peter and Chad, eyes still squinting, attempted to decipher the other side of the conversation.

"Yes, this is Simon... Oh, not to worry. It's no problem... When?... No, you don't need to apologize... Of course, it is...Yes. Just Peter? I understand... No, I'm sure he won't mind... Yes... I'm sure she will be okay... Yes, she's been through this before. She'll be fine. You know that...Yes, it's always very disconcerting... No. You mustn't be angry. She needs your patience in these times... Yes, as soon as he can."

As Simon took a prolonged breath, Chad bellowed, "Well? Who was it? What's going on?"

"It was Sarah. Her mum is in hospital."

"What happened?" Chad asked.

"She has had a nervous breakdown. She has had them before, but not for quite a while."

"Nervous breakdown?" Chad's questions continued. "What the hell does that mean? I've never figured out what that means. Nervous breakdown? I don't get it. Why's she in the hospital?"

"I don't know."

Peter grabbed Simon's arm. "Yes you do."

"She took some pills. That is all Sarah said. I don't know how many or when. Susan asked for you to come, Peter."

Chad started toward the bedroom. "I'm going, too, in case Sarah needs me. Come on, Pete."

"She only asked for Peter to go. She specifically said, 'Please just send Peter.' I'm sorry, Chad."

Chad turned quickly around and threw his hands in the air. "What? Why the hell would she say that? Why Peter? Why would Sarah want Peter? I don't care. I'm going."

"It was Susan's request, Chad. I don't know why. Maybe she doesn't want to bother you."

Chad ignored Simon. "Peter, get dressed. I'll drive. You are going, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm going. Why would you even ask that? What about you, though, Simon? They know you a lot better – and for longer."

"I will see her later, when she's ready. Right now, she'd like you there," Simon said as he nodded at Peter with a slight but reassuring smile.

Chad walked to the bedroom. "This is crazy. They can kick me out if they want, but I'm going. I don't need to see Susan, but at least I can be with Sarah. She'll need me. I'm going." He came back out and threw jeans and a t-shirt at Peter.

***

Peter and Chad cringed as they walked through the doors of the hospital and the repulsive smell of anesthetics and medications invaded their lungs.

Peter felt numb walking through the sterile, seemingly uncaring corridors. A left turn, then a right turn down another hallway, then another left turn, and they spotted Lisa and Sarah sitting on a metal bench at the end of a long hallway.

Chad walked with his head held squarely, his eyes keenly focused forward. He whispered to Peter, "She won't push me away. She'll see she needs me. What the hell is a nervous breakdown anyway?"

"Beats me." Peter had his head half down, watching his feet come and go out of his sight. His thoughts raced through his brain: _Why does she want to see me? What hope can I give someone who sees death as the only answer? What does it mean to have a nervous breakdown? Maybe someday I'll have one. Maybe I already have and didn't know it_. _Why does she want me here?_

The sisters were holding hands as they neared the bench. Sarah looked at Chad. Three tears trickled down her right cheek. She stood up slowly and looked at the floor. Then she reached out and invited an embrace. "Thank you for coming. She's okay. She is okay."

Chad wiped her tears off with his thumb and kissed away another tear that started down her left cheek.

Lisa watched her sister and Chad for a moment. Her eyes were red and watery. She stood, hugged Peter, and whispered. "Why'd you bring him?"

Peter whispered back, "You know what he's like." Peter tried to step back, but Lisa refused to let him go. He allowed the embrace to linger for a few more moments, then took hold of her shoulders and pulled away from her desperate grip. "I better go see your mum."

Peter entered the room – clean and pure but lacking the ability to offer any solace, hope, or comfort. Johan stood at the window staring out at the coming dawn. Without acknowledging Peter, he stated he was going outside to smoke. He kissed Susan on the cheek and walked out the door as he searched for his cigarettes and matches.

"This is embarrassing," Susan said with an awkward and forced smile.

"No, no, not at all." Peter paused and then asked the only question he could think of. "How are you?" He shook his head and thought, _God, what a stupid question to ask someone lying in a hospital bed._ He felt his face begin to flush.

"I am fine. It is not that serious. They tend to overreact." Susan looked Peter in the eyes, and he fought the instinct to turn his head away from her gaze. She went on, "I just... sometimes I... It's so ridiculous... I ..." Susan bit her bottom lip, and a tear made its way down her cheek and fell on her hand. "Oh, Peter, I hope you didn't mind coming. I just feel you can understand this... this stupidity. You are so quiet, so calm. Peter, I know you understand what it means to be down, depressed. It is hard for my family to understand. If one has never been depressed, it is just hard for them to understand. I feel you understand."

Peter had never characterized himself as a depressed individual. He did not understand why Susan seemed to perceive him this way. For a moment, he felt perplexed and angry that she had labeled him as such. Then he remembered talking to Dumisani about his darkness, his abyss. _Is that what it is?_ He shook off this thought and asked, "What happened?"

"I had an argument with Johan, Nothing unusual. I don't even remember what it was about. It was about nothing. I got angry and threw a few dishes. Peter, I always calm down. And Johan ... he always goes out to smoke and have his beer, and then it's fine. It's always fine after that. But this time, I don't know why I went to my bedroom and took those darn pills. I didn't even look at them. I wasn't thinking that I wanted to die or that I would take some pills and put an end to it. I wasn't really thinking anything at all. I just picked the bottle up, took a mouthful and then... then I swallowed another mouthful. I don't know why. I don't have a clue why I did it. Peter, I do not want to die. I have much too much to live for. I know that. I have no idea what I was thinking." She paused, shook her head, and looked away. "What scares me, Peter, is that I wasn't thinking at all. Now look what I have done! I am so angry that I put my family through this. I need to be strong for them."

"We all have our moments, Susan. We do crazy things when our emotions go into overdrive. We can't be strong all the time. I know I'm not. Families understand that. Your family understands that."

"Does yours? Does your family have such ridiculous problems? Have you ever had moments like this? Has anyone in your family ever done something so foolish, so stupid?"

Peter had never seen weakness in his parents. He always assumed they were eternally strong. He was instilled with the mantra 'Take life as it comes.' He was taught never to complain or dwell on supposed or real injustices. He was to always maintain a confident façade and always _and_ forever be in control. Peter had spent his life hiding his fragility, his fears, and his demons. He tried so hard to pretend to be strong. The past three years, he knew he failed miserably at his pretense. He knew his family must have seen through it, and they must have secretly felt sorry for him. Nevertheless, his family's protocol did not allow for honesty of the heart and soul. They never said anything. They just knew – just assumed – he would be fine.

So Peter lied, "Sure we did. Often. Families get past this... this kind of thing. Families always have each other. You have a great family. I love being around y'all."

"Thank you. It is a wonderful family, isn't it? I know that. I have a lot to be thankful for. I am so ashamed I put them through this. They don't deserve this."

Peter bit his upper lip, and he wondered if he should agree. He took her hand, nodded. "No, they don't deserve this, and neither do you. But bad moments come for everyone, and we have to look past them. We have to embrace the good moments. They're the reality."

"I feel like such a fool."

"Don't. You mustn't. Let me get Sarah and Lisa."

"Wait, Peter. I want... we want you and Chad to join us on our holiday, to the Kruger Game Reserve and the Drakensburg Mountains. It would be wonderful chance for you to see a different South Africa than the Transvaal." She looked again intently in his eyes. "I really would like you to join us."

"Are you sure? That would be great, but we wouldn't want to intrude on your family, your vacation time. You don't want two Yanks tagging along."

"Intruding? Not at all. Peter, I need you to come. You will come?"

***

As Johan walked into the hallway, he saw Sarah embracing Chad. "Save a hug for me, princess."

Sarah embraced her father. "Why does she do this? Why, Daddy?"

"That's your mother, love. She is okay. You know what she's like. Hey, princess, we're used to this, aren't we? We're going to be fine. Your mother will be just fine. You know that. All's forgiven, and we'll move on."

Lisa nestled her way between them.

Johan squeezed his daughters tightly. "You two are the most important thing to me in all of God's wondrous creation. We will always be a family. Never forget that. Never you two forget that. I'll be back just now. You two, go in and see your mother." Johan turned and put his cigarette in his mouth. He nodded at Chad as he walked down the corridor, feeling his pockets for a match.

***

_Four weeks. Four flipping weeks! It is time you told her ... I know, I know. Soon, soon. I'll do it soon. Four weeks, letting her assume... letting her... I have to tell her. Soon._ Pete's thoughts berated him daily, but the simple words needed to define limits and expectations for his relationship with Cindy would not come. After each time they had been together alone, he would tell himself again, _I will tell her next time that we need to slow down and just be friends. Tell her I love our friendship, but there is no glimmer of anything more. It is just not there. Next time, I will tell her._ The problem was that the _next time_ habitually turned into the _next time_.

The reality was, deep in his psyche, where hidden secrets of the soul remain secluded and chained, a decision had been made – he was never to say anything about his determination to never love again. He couldn't reveal this to Cindy because he feared losing what he did have with her. So his inner being would never allow him to find the words to declare that he could not love her as she wanted, as she needed. Each week his guilt and shame deepened as he let her assume there was more to this relationship than he could ever offer. Week after week, his hidden fear kept the relationship growing.

***

Chad presumed that after their embrace at the hospital, after the tender moment of fragile needs expressed and met, Sarah would allow him in. However, Sarah remained guarded and somewhat surreptitious. His exercise in controlling his emotions and hormones had to continue.

As the weeks went on, Wednesday night's meeting at Jackson's became less frequent; church activities were demanding more attention as Christmas programs neared and school holidays began. Chad was determined to cherish every moment he did have with Sarah – moments of frivolity, of sharing personal secrets, of exploring life's inconsistencies and frustrations, and they were moments of embracing the joy of being young and alive. It was those fleeting times spent together that kept his soul beating and his hope alive.

Sarah's constant exaggerated flirtations seemed to affirm her interest in Chad as more than just a friend. However, any lighthearted seduction was always followed by, "It's great being friends, isn't it?" Chad had trouble discerning if this young woman was, pure and simple, a cruel tease toying with him or was indeed giving subconscious messages that she would soon open herself up to a full-fledged romance.

Chad continued to bide his time. A holiday with family loomed, and that would be his opportunity.

***

After the Christmas Eve service, George approached Peter in the car park as the last parishioner drove off. With a fatherly look communicating concern and frustration, George said, "Peter, it's wonderful you're spending time with Roger at Grace. I'm sure it is a great experience for you, and we certainly appreciate your work for us here. There is a concern, however, that, perhaps, your efforts here have been compromised. There is a perceived lack of enthusiasm – dare I say, commitment on the part of _some_ individuals."

Peter wanted to say, "Go to hell," but instead he said, "I'm not sure what you mean."

George enunciated his words with great care. "We have no doubt in your commitment to the church. You have worked very hard. It is a matter of serving two masters. Peter, the reality is, you are worn out, and your work suffers. We certainly do not question either your enthusiasm or commitment. We don't want you to burn yourself out."

"I've got to make a choice? Is that what this is about? An ultimatum?" Peter tried to hide his hurt and his anger, but both oozed out. George forced a slight smile, which Peter interpreted as arrogance. Peter's hands began to tremble slightly. He folded his arms.

Still smiling, George said, "Of course not! Don't be ridiculous. Our concern is simply that you don't spread yourself so thin. Your first commitment is to St. Stephens, to the children here in Vanderbijlpark. We want to feel that you are with us 100 percent. The people need to know you are with us... fully."

Peter no longer attempted to hide his emotions. His slight Southern drawl became more pronounced. "This is clear and simple an ultimatum, and I resent that. I'm fulfilling my obligation, doing my work here. So tell me what it is you... these people, expect."

George replied, "I'm sorry it comes across that way. We do not intend to stop you from going to Roger's church. That is not the concern. That is your decision. We simply want to encourage you to pace yourself so you give your best to your work here. We know that's what you want."

"Sure. I understand. I'm sorry if I've been... if I've appeared distracted," Peter responded in a near mumble.

"Very well. I'm glad we had this talk," said George.

As George walked back into the church, Peter experienced an indignant anger mingling with unsettling guilt. He felt like a young teenager caught doing wrong; he says he's sorry, but knows full well he will continue to do what he wants to do because that's what teenagers do.

***

Green grass, flowers blossoming, a warm day, and all their family members woefully absent: This did not feel like Christmas to the two Americans. A piece of home came when Peter received a package with homemade candies, a few presents, and plenty of Christmas cards from near and distant relatives. It also contained a cassette tape of the Oklahoma-Nebraska football game, which Peter's dad had recorded for Chad. The game was a classic contest. Chad had listened to it repeatedly, to the point when the cassette player devoured the worn tape. The thoughtfulness of Peter's father stirred Chad's emotions. This gesture from someone else's father reinforced Chad's disappointment and anger toward his own, who had not even bothered to sign the Christmas card his mother had sent.

CHAPTER 17

Sadie

Before the break of dawn on January 2, Johan blew the horn of his 1969 Volkswagen Kombi – the family van that had been popular in the sixties, especially with free-spirited hippies searching for peace, love, rock 'n' roll, and the next Woodstock.

Peter had camped out by the door for half an hour with his rucksack in hand. Three times, he attempted to rouse Chad, and he finally gave up. Peter yelled at Chad once again. "Get going! They're waiting!"

Chad yelled back, "Goddamn it! This is too bloody early."

Peter bit his tongue. He told himself, _I'm not going to worry about him._ _If he's late, he's late. If they have to wait... they can get on him. I am not going to ruin things before we start._ As he went through the door, he called out, "Hurry up!"

Chad rolled out of bed, threw on jeans and a t-shirt, doused his face with water, grabbed his rucksack, and burst through the front door just as the horn blew again, arousing neighbors content in their slumber.

The sun peaked over the horizon as they left from Vanderbijlpark behind and approached the highway. Susan offered warm, homemade cinnamon rolls with a twinkle in her eye.

As they finished their sweet and sticky breakfast, Susan looked back at her guests with expectant eyes and lips pressed together. Lisa whispered in Peter's ear, and he in turn whispered in Chad's ear. Then they both bragged about the rolls, remarking how they reminded them of home.

The young girls hid their laughter as Susan nodded her head and said, "I got the recipe from a friend's American cookbook. I thought you would be pleased."

During the next two hours of the journey, Johan told countless and elaborate anecdotes about his beloved kombi, which, for an unknown reason, he called 'Sadie.' "Now this one is my favorite stories. Sarah hates this one because it reminds her of bad dreams, but it is a tale that must be told."

Sarah whined, "It still gives me the shivers. Please do not tell it. Please, Dad."

Johan ignored the plea. "We were camped there in the northwest corner of Kruger. We had strolled around the campsite and got us some cold drinks at a kiosk at the far end compound. Little Sarah was about twelve at the time. When we came back, she caught a glimpse of a snake inside the van, and boy did she scream! Obliterated my eardrums. That is why I cannot hear so well to this day. _Ja,_ man. Well, I was determined to show no fear. After all, it was just an old bush snake, eh? No problem. So I climb into Sadie with a big ole stick to shoo the poor thing out."

Lisa interrupted, "Dad flies out of the kombi. He rolled all the way over on his head three times." Lisa's arms illustrated the scene.

" _Ja_! I had the shock of my life. I bolted out of Sadie in one hop, like Superman." Johan snorted as his laughter came out and then continued, "That damn creature... it is a black mamba. A black mamba! Deadliest snake in all of Africa. _Ay_. They call it the 'five-step snake' because after it bites, you will walk no more than five steps before you ball up in convulsions and die a grisly, painful death." Johan jerked two fingers down in a striking motion. "Deadly things. Deadly."

Susan added, "It was a nightmare. It was two hours before a park ranger showed up. All our food was in there, and we were starving. We couldn't even fix a cup of tea."

Johan continued, " _Ja_. The bloody ranger shows up and stood around for another hour with a half dozen of his Bantus, all of them arguing like menopausal apes. No one wants to tackle this job. The park ranger eventually gives up on his boys and locates the park snake wrangler. That okie bagged the creature lickety-split, just like that, no fear at all in him. He took it away to the bush and assures us proudly that the mamba would live a happy life. Then he said, 'Now, the beauty may return to the area if she found anything of interest to entice her back. They are rather territorial.'"

Susan finished the story. "So we packed up camp and drove two hours to a less-secluded campsite. We all slept in the van for the rest of that trip."

Johan laughed, shook his head in fondness. " _Ay_! To this day, Sarah insists I check the van every time we get in her while we're in Kruger or any other game park."

Then Lisa told her favorite tale, often interrupting herself with burst of her own laughter. As her story progressed, Sarah made intensifying demands to "Shut up or else," but Lisa pressed on. "One time, twenty baboons, babies and mamas, they climbed all over the kombi, pressing their faces against the windows, laughing at us like we were the animals in the zoo. Like this..." Lisa thrust out her bottom lip, filled her cheeks with air, and waved her arms wildly. Composing her self-induced laughter, she continued, using her arms and face to accentuate her story. "A great big one, he kept looking at Sarah, licking his lips like this... wanting to kiss her. She started screaming. Then the baboon screamed. Then—"

" _Hou jou bek_ , Lisa. Shuuut up!" Sarah demanded, as her face turned increasingly red.

"Then she—"

Susan interrupted. She spoke firmly, though a chuckle appeared to be begging for life, "Lisa, that is enough, now."

That increased Lisa's laughter and determination to finish her anecdote. "She wet herself. Peed all over herself!"

"God, Lisa! It wasn't funny. You'd better shut up!" Everyone's laughter muffled Sarah's command.

"It was. She peed, she—"

"Enough, Lisa!" Susan said as sternly as she could while holding her laughter in check.

Johan was not concerned about his laughter. He eventually said, " _That_ was a very fine day – a very fine day indeed."

Sarah, with a face bright red, whined, "They will never let me forget that – never. Anyway, it was a long time ago."

Chad asked, "How old were you?"

Sarah said. "It was a long time ago."

Lisa burst into laughter again and blurted out, "She was sixteen. Sixteen! It was only two years ago Sarah. Six—"

"You had better shut up, you," Sarah said as she punched Lisa in the arm.

"Sixteen!" Lisa's laughter increased. "Six—"

Sarah put her hand over her tormentor's mouth to muffle the last syllable.

Stories of their beloved Sadie and her amazing adventures with this family continued: the trip when a large bull elephant started rocking the van nearly turning it on its side and only stopped after Johan convinced the females to stop screaming at the millionth decibel level; the time they parked near a pride of lions and watched them devour a young springbok from the top of the van; stories of flat tires and breakdowns in the outer regions of nowhere, wondering if they would ever be found and always ending up playing marathon games of canasta as they waited for a park ranger to show up. Each account was recounted with fondness and laughter. Each collective memory evoked a renewed reverence for the experiences of this family being a family.

When the treasure of anecdotes was exhausted, quiet ensued. Johan smiled and hummed to himself, and Susan gazed out the side window. Chad and Sarah busied themselves in subdued whispers, often letting out bursts of laughter, which they quickly curtailed. Peter sat listening to Lisa talk about her schoolmates. He held a book and often opened it, hoping Lisa would comprehend this nonverbal request to give him some peace. He eventually tuned her out, offering her an occasional nod as she prattled on, and he was able to finish reading the first two chapters of ' _Catch 22_.'

Peter noticed Susan letting out increasing sighs, each accompanied by a slight shake of her head. He wondered if he should ask her if she was all right. He told himself that was Johan's role, not his.

A few minutes later, Susan leaned toward Johan and whispered in his ear. Johan glanced at her and hit the steering wheel hard with his palm.

Susan leaned again toward Johan. She spoke loud enough for the others to hear, "You know that could get us all locked up, those petrol cans tied up there on the roof. What were you thinking? I do not understand you. It could get us all killed. I don't know why you do such things. I told you not to. If the police find out about those..."

There was a moment of silence.

Peter fixed his gaze on Johan, he was sure the whole of Johan's body was increasing in size.

Lisa grabbed Peter's knee and whispered, "I don't like this. They always do this."

Johan spewed his words out, " _Ag nee_. Quiet, woman! I am not going to have us stranded in the middle of nowhere because we cannot buy bloody petrol. Don't blame me that they ration the goddamn petrol. _Ay_! Just shut up about it."

Susan responded, "It could get us all in trouble. It could put you in jail. Moreover, you are putting us all at risk. What if it explodes? We'll all be dead, Johan! All you have to do is light your cigarette in the wrong place. I just don't know why you do such foolish things!"

"Jesus, woman! We will not be caught. It will be fine. There will be no bloody explosion. I don't know why you have to worry about that which is no concern of yours. Flip man! Forget about it already!"

Peter's emotions numbed as he witnessed the bickering continue, growing in intensity.

Lisa shouted several times, "Shut up! Please shut up!" With each succeeding demand, the pitch in her voice ratcheted upwards until it became a near scream. Eventually, she gave up and stared out the window with no further interest in what was going on. Sarah, sounding like a frustrated parent chastising squabbling siblings, interrupted, "You two need to just let it go. Stop it, right now!"

Quiet ensued for a fleeting moment. Then there was a glance, a sigh, a word – the fragile truce came to a quick end.

Sarah sighed and shook her head. She leaned over to Chad and whispered, "There's only one way to end this. They know I'll do it if they don't stop." She stepped toward the front of the van and exclaimed, "Mom! I'm carsick. We have to stop. I have to get out now! I am going to throw up. Quick! Please!"

Johan pulled over. They took in the fresh air and had a cup of tea from their assigned flasks. When they climbed back into the kombi, the tension had vanished.

***

Nightfall was encroaching by the time they arrived at the southern hills of the Drakensberg Mountains, the pride of the Natal Province in northeastern South Africa. This mountain range is a world away from the flat, arid landscape of the Transvaal. The Drakensberg Mountains are not magnificent in terms of the incredible magnitude of the Alps or the Rockies, but they are nevertheless majestic and awe inspiring in their own right: forbidding, wild, rugged, and beautiful. Lush emerald savannahs encroach upon dragon-like summits, as if they are fighting their way up the steep, rugged slopes to tame the inhospitable peaks. The Drakensberg's towering, jagged peaks and flourishing green valleys, remind awed visitors that beauty and strength rule this Earth.

The stars were shining brightly by the time the vacationers arrived at the campsite. Peter and Chad fumbled and bungled marvelously as they attempted to erect their two-man tent; the two girls had their three-man tent up in five minutes flat. They offered to help, to which Chad curtly responded, "We're fine. Leave it to us." Sarah and Lisa laughed heartily as they sat and watched the two inept campers.

After thirty minutes, Peter threw the tent poles down. "That's it. You two do it," and five minutes later, the tent was up.

As they sipped cocoa, Lisa breathlessly described the scene to her parents, who had been preparing their bed in the kombi. When Johan finished his drink, he stood up, looked at the stars above. "It has been a very fine day. This is what life is about. We are going to have a great holiday. Let's get to bed. We have an early start in the morning."

The next day, they hiked around Cathedral Peak and Bushman's Nek. They returned to the campsite that evening, exhausted and ready to enjoy some peace and quiet. The family and friends played card games, laughing and joking as Lisa and Johan playfully cheated, just to frustrate the others. As the evening wore on, Chad thought, _This is what it means to be a family – playing games, fixing meals, washing up together, and laughing with each other. My God! I want to be a part of this. God, give me a chance with Sarah. Just a chance._

The following morning included a trip to the Champagne Castle area, where they hiked to Crystal Falls and admired the stunning views of Cathkin Peak – the most recognizable peak of the Drakensberg Mountains.

Shortly after they returned to the campsite, Johan disappeared. With dinner nearly ready, Susan sent Lisa out to find her father. She took Peter's hand and said, "You're coming with me."

On the far side of the campsite, they saw Johan sitting around a campfire eating _boerewors_ and drinking beer with two loud Afrikaner families.

Lisa stopped and grabbed Peter's arm. "It's too late. We need to go back."

Peter said, "Lisa, don't be silly! It's fine. I'm sure he'll come back with us."

"I wish." She sighed.

"Come on. He'll come back." Peter walked to the campsite with Lisa half a step behind him.

"Lisa! Peter! Meet my new friends. This is my wonderful daughter. And this is my very wonderful friend, all the way from America. These are my friends from Pietersburg. Is it dinnertime already? Run home and tell them I'll be there shortly."

One of the friends slapped Johan on the back and said, "What about our poker game? We have to get started. It's going to be a long, long night for you, _bru_."

Johan laughed. "You two go on back. I'll be back just now."

Susan waited fifteen minutes. When Johan still hadn't showed up, she said, "Go ahead and dish up. I'm famished. Let me go and get your father."

Sarah dished up, and they sat with plates on their laps and waited.

A few minutes later, they heard Johan's faint voice. They could only make out two words: "Interfering bitch!"

Two minutes later, Susan returned. "Go ahead and eat," she said before she retreated into the kombi.

The four traded glances.

"I'll go get him," Lisa said. "I'll drag him back."

" _Ja,_ man. You do that, Miss Piggy. You do that," Sarah stated in a strangely comforting manner. "Go and bring him back."

"You come with me. Come on, Sarah," Lisa pleaded.

Sarah looked at Lisa. Her eyes whispered, _You know it's too late. There is nothing we can do._

Lisa said, "Well, fine. Let's eat. He can stay there all night. I don't care."

Peter slipped into the kombi to check on Susan. He found her sitting on the makeshift bed with her head buried in her hands.

"I sometimes think I can't take it anymore. I just cannot. I just can't bear anymore of this ... this..." Her words refused to surface.

Peter stood silent. He was not equipped for this display of crippling despair. _Should I agree with her? 'It is too much, give up, leave him.' Should I argue with her? 'No, no. It's not so bad, things will be fine.' Should I defend Johan? 'Oh, it's okay. Just let him have his fun.'_ He sat down and said nothing as her tears welled up and began to trickle through her fingers. Peter reached for a tissue from the front of the van. Still searching for words of comfort, he handed her the tissue.

Susan dried her tears and said, "We won't let this spoil our evening, will we?"

Peter said, "No. Let's go eat. Johan will come to his senses when he's ready. He will! There's no reason to let it ruin a good meal."

The evenings that followed, at the numerous campsites, remained unpredictable. Some nights were relaxing, laid back, and enjoyable. Other evenings, the dysfunction would suddenly manifest. Peter likened those nights to the massive thunderstorms of an Oklahoma spring; they never knew when the next powerful, frightening monster storm would roll through, or how much destruction it might leave in its wake.

***

The day finally came when the kombi headed for Kruger National Park, South Africa's largest and most famous game reserve. They would spend the next six days on safari around Kruger and other surrounding game parks. This was the Americans' opportunity to experience Africa, the Dark Continent – an untamed world where man is the uninvited visitor, privileged to witness the reality of pure nature. Nature that survives with no concern of right or wrong, good or bad; nature that exists for the sake of existing. Giraffes, elephants, zebras, hippos, springboks, lions, baboons: This is Africa – wild, exotic, forbidding, raw, and wonderful.

On their first full day on safari, they came across a sight few visitors to Kruger have the privilege to witness: herds of zebras, giraffes, and kudus grazing together. Johan drove as close as he dared to the wild animals. He encouraged the four to climb carefully onto the kombi roof. They spotted a pride of lions barely in sight, under some brush, biding their time. There the human spectators sat, in awe and wonder, fighting for the binoculars and taking endless pictures. They watched hundreds of animals, peaceful and content, fulfilling their purpose in creation.

Peter laughed to himself and said, "You know zebras are reactionaries?"

Each looked strangely at him.

He went on, "And the giraffes? They are insincere."

Susan stuck her head out the window. "Yes indeed. And the antelopes are missionaries."

Chad said, "Oh yeah, I remember that monkeys turn on frequently."

"No, monkeys stand for honesty. Hamsters turn on frequently," Peter said.

Johan called out, "And the zookeeper is very fond of rum!"

They all laughed except for Sarah and Lisa, who looked at one another indicating that all their companions had gone crazy.

Before they left the enchanting scene, Johan insisted that the two boys get close to two giraffes that had meandered their way. "It will make for a superb photo," he stated.

Susan protested. "We're not supposed to leave the car. Quit trying to talk them into doing something so dangerous."

Her cautions ignored, Johan prodded, "A little bit more... a little closer," as Peter and Chad inched their way closer to the huge mammals.

The giraffes looked curiously at the two humans, blinking their gargantuan eyelids.

"Stop! That's it!" Johan finally snapped the picture and proudly called out, "Great!"

The larger of the two animals dropped her neck low, swooshed her tail, pulled her head up, and began to run toward the men. The three darted as fast as their adrenaline would pump their legs and slid underneath the van. The giraffe stopped, bobbed her head, and snorted as if she was laughing. She turned and ambled back to her tree.

"Another story to tell!" Johan said. "Another cracking tale."

***

"Slow down, Johan. Please slow down." Susan moaned.

Johan replied, "We're fine. We're nearly there. The ranger said to hurry if we wanted to catch sight of the herd. It should be only another fifty kilometers."

"We've seen elephants before, Dad. It's not a big deal. You can slow down a bit," Sarah said.

Johan laughed. "Nonsense! The boys haven't seen them in the wild. They don't want to miss this chance." He accelerated a bit more.

Susan opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word ... _THUD_!

Everyone flew a foot off their respective seats.

"Shit! What was that?" Chad asked.

They all looked back and saw a large lizard in the road.

"My God! It's a crocodile!" Susan screamed. "Now we're in trouble. Why do you have to drive so fast? You've killed it. They will throw us in jail now. And they'll find your darn petrol."

" _Hou jou bek_!" Johan said. He took a deep breath. He was ready to unleash a tirade of four-letter words, when the van swerved out of control, careened off the road in and out of a ditch, and then abruptly halted by a six-foot high, thankfully vacant, anthill.

The inspection revealed two flat tires, and one wheel rim was bent. "Goddamn suspension is damaged. I bet. At least, it is way out of alignment. Poor, poor Sadie. That damn croc!" Johan said, obviously curtailing pent-up rage.

"This is it then. Here we are, stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere! We've got no transportation. What now, Johan? What now?" Tears were welling up as Susan spoke.

Lisa hugged Susan. "It's okay, Mum. Daddy will fix it."

"Fix it? You're dad has fixed it all right. We will all be thrown in jail for killing a poor crocodile, and then no doubt in prison for the hoarded petrol. You're dad had to..."

Johan cut Susan off before she could say another word. "Don't you blame this on me, woman! If you were able to read a bloody map, we wouldn't be on this road. If you hadn't been nagging my ear off about everything, I could have been concentrating better. I might have seen the damn thing in the road if I didn't have to listen to you!"

Peter braced himself for a monster storm to roll through.

Lisa, using her fingers for ear plugs, shouted, "Stop it! Just shut up! What are we going to do? We'll be lost forever and be eaten by hyenas, with vultures picking our bones clean."

Everyone looked at her and burst into laughter.

Minutes later, a Land Rover pulled up, and a park ranger with three Black assistants jumped out.

Peter whispered to Chad, "Will they just throw Johan in jail or all of us?"

Chad shrugged his shoulders, squatted down on his knees, and watched the scene unfold. The three other young people joined him.

Johan said, "I think that tire blew. I lost control. Lucky we didn't turn over in that ditch. I'm afraid that axel may be cracked."

The ranger muttered, " _Ja_." He then shook his head. He looked up and down the road.

Peter's heart skipped a beat, and he nudged Chad. They looked down the road and saw no sign of any croc or other great lizard.

Chad whispered to Peter, "Wow! The unfortunate creature must have waddled off into the bushveld. How about that? He's more durable than good ole Sadie."

The ranger inspected the van and gave his impression. " _Ja_ _man_. _Jy_ _is_ _korrek_. That suspension, it is quite damaged. _Ek is nie seker dit is die moeite werd bevestiging_."

Johan would not accept that diagnosis. "Oh, she's worth fixing. She is well worth it, bru. She has many years left to give us. She's been through a lot worse than this little setback."

"Very well. I can get you a tow. It is a good fifty kilometers to the nearest reliable garage. I shall be happy to take your family back to the campsite, but you had better stay with your kombi if you want it done proper, bru."

" _Dit is egter nie 'n probleem. Dankie_. I appreciate it bru. You've saved our lives," Johan said and slapped the ranger on the shoulder.

The ranger then turned and walked toward his Land Rover to call for assistance.

Peter saw both Susan and Johan let out slow, deep breaths once the ranger showed no interest in inspecting the kombi for any contraband. Johan took Susan by the waist and kissed her cheek as the ranger radioed for help.

The lucky ones gathered essential supplies from a disabled Sadie and climbed into the Land Rover. Lisa called out to her dad as they left, "Don't let the hyenas eat you, Dad."

"I won't, cupcake. I won't. You keep an eye on that sister of yours."

"Of course."

Johan remained with his beloved and faithful kombi, content with the two six-packs of beer and a bag of potato chips. He climbed on top of the kombi, opened a bottle of beer, leaned against the petrol cans, and waited for the arrival of the tow truck.
CHAPTER 18

Love Unleashed

Sipping his hot cocoa, Chad chuckled to himself and said, "That'll be another story Johan can add to the heart-wrenching chronicles of his indestructible Sadie."

Susan responded in an unusually relaxed manner, "It shall be a good one, yes, but such trials need time... time to mellow."

Pete asked, "Time for the emotions to fade?"

Susan said, "Indeed. When you are back home and time has put a shadow over the frustration of the event, then it becomes a story to share. This shall become a great tale for the grandchildren – should I be blessed with any." She gazed at her two daughters. "Right now, I am just glad our little catastrophe is over. However, we better pray hard now that blasted Sadie gets fixed."

Chad laughed. "Yeah, pray for the healing of dear Sadie ... and for her poor driver!"

Sarah said, "No need to waste a prayer on Dad. He'll be living it up."

Susan looked up to the sky and sighed. "That _is_ something to pray about. Nevertheless, let's enjoy a peaceful night and our time together. If his wretched Sadie is not fixed... well, I don't care to think about that."

Peter said, "I guess for a while, there will be no storms on the horizon."

As they finished their cocoa, Chad started to fidget. He kept telling himself, _Now is the time. Here's my opportunity_. Eventually, he leaned over and whispered to Sarah, "We should take a walk."

Sarah immediately stood up and stated, "Mum, we're off for a bit ... and no, Lisa, you're not invited."

"Can if I want, and I want."

"Mum!" Sarah whined.

"Let your sister go, Lisa."

Lisa still protested. "I'm going if Peter's going."

"Oh. I'm staying here." Peter reassured her. "Another cup of cocoa is all I want."

Susan warned, "Don't go too far, and don't be too long."

Chad and Sarah wandered around the perimeter of the campground. Toward the far end of the site, they came across a large log bench on the crest of a lazy slope, well hidden behind some trees and bushes. "This is perfect!" Chad exclaimed. "We can disappear from nosy family and those noisy campers for a while."

Sarah smiled and nodded as they sat down.

"Look at this, Sarah. There must be a thousand names carved in this log."

" _Ja_ , a thousand witless fools thinking they fell in love on their summer holiday – young, innocent puppy love."

Chad said, "Yeah, disgusting."

They gazed toward the base of the incline, where flickering torches illuminated three-thatched roundovels and two dozen or so Black workers eating and drinking after a long day's work in the game reserve. The beat of African music echoed up the slope, offering a faint serenade.

"Look there!" Sarah said and pointed.

They sat silent and motionless as an enormous orange-hued ball slipped into the night sky. The chatter of the workers at the bottom of the hill ceased, allowing them to pay homage to the resurrection of Earth's lonely companion. Chad and Sarah watched the moon's creeping ascent, mesmerized by its haunting orange glow which slowly turned to silver.

"God, that was amazing," Chad whispered. He looked at Sarah and pulled her silky golden brown hair aside, allowing the moonlight illumine her face. His heart started to pound. _Now. Right now_. He spoke. His voice lacked its usual confidence; that self-assurance that too often bordered on arrogance. "I can't stand this. I really can't. This pretending, this hiding, this ignoring one another. Please tell me you feel the same."

Sarah stared down the slope and said nothing.

Chad knew the silence declared he was wrong about her; he _had_ been living in a fantasy. The silence exposed how stupid and naïve he had been. With pressed lips, he waited for the declaration that his love was unrequited.

"You're right. I hate it... this... this superficiality. I want... I want to let go, let it happen, and see where it will take us. I want you. I want us."

"Wait... wait, are you sure? Do you realize what you're saying? I don't want any more teasing. No more 'Wait and see' or 'I don't know.' Sarah, are you for sure?"

"As sure as that moon up there shines, I want you. No, wait. I don't just want you, Chad. I love you. Part of me doesn't want to, but I do. I don't know how much. But by God, I do love you."

"It doesn't matter how much. That is something we figure out along the way. I love you, and I don't know how much, but I know I care more about you than I have anyone in my life. I don't understand that, and part of me doesn't like it, but I do care, and I do love you. Where it takes us, we'll see. But what about... well, you know ..."

"What about what?" She arched her eyebrow.

"What about your other friend... little fat Philip?"

"I've told you before, he's pretty well gone. He's nothing to worry about."

"What does that mean? Pretty well gone?"

"I mean I've had enough of him. He's been driving me crazy. He's like a fourteen-year-old. He knows it's over, that it has been for ages. He just doesn't want to accept it, to believe it. You were right. He is a creep, a certified creep. He's a bloody Boer, a thick-tongued plank."

Suppressed adoration, desire, and love was unleashed, and Chad's emotions exploded. This did not resemble any previous experience he had had with all the females he had pursued and pretended to care about – or even with all the females he pursued and wanted to care about.

The couple embraced, kissed, and caressed. It seemed a fleeting moment before the rude beam of two flashlights flickered around them. They looked up and saw the moon high above them.

" _Ek sê!_ Look at that!" Lisa's high-pitched voice rang out.

"Do you y'all know what time it is?" The voice behind the flashlight said.

"Blast it Peter! You could have warned us," Chad said.

"Boy, are you in trouble, Sarah. Boy are you two in trouble." Lisa's voice hinted of satisfaction. "I told Mum you'd be making out."

"Don't you tell Mum any such thing! Don't you dare, you rat!" Sarah's threatening tone included an unspoken promise of eternal misery if Lisa failed to abide by this command.

***

"Not one word!" Sarah reminded her sister as they returned to their campsite.

Mothers are not at all blind when it comes to their children, and Lisa did not have to say a word. Susan said, "Well, what's this? What's up with you two? "

Sarah moaned. "What do you mean, Mum? There's nothing going on. I don't know what you mean."

Susan gave her daughter that look all mothers give a child when they have caught them in a red-faced fib. "I'm not so blind. You do not need to hide things."

"They've been kissing, Mum. Lots!" Lisa blurted out the forbidden details, unconcerned about her sister's previous threats.

"Lisa, they're adults. I don't need details. You, young lady just mind your own business. And as for you two, it's about time you stopped pretending."

"What?" Sarah muttered.

"A mother sees these things."

Sarah replied, "Well, there's not been anything to see until now."

Susan smiled and poured two cups of tea, "Who are you kidding?"

"Do you think Dad suspects anything?"

"Nooo. Your dad chooses not to notice these things. In his eyes, you're still his little princess."

"He'll kill you both! He will!" Lisa declared.

Susan said, "Lisa! Don't exaggerate. He cares for you a lot, Chad. He cares a lot for both you and Peter. But Sarah, just keep it low key. You are adults, and it's your business, but for your own sakes, don't rush things. You know how your father—"

"I know, Mum. I know how Dad will react."

"And you will have to deal with that Phillip. It's only fair to tell him, dear."

"Mum! Please! That's long finished anyway."

"Philip does not appear to think so. And does Chad know about—"

"Yes, Mum. It's taken care of. It's not a problem, Mum."

Lisa gloated. "He threw an ugly fit the last time you tried to dump him. He punched that hole in the wall at Jackson's. I wish I'd been there to see that. That's why she told him there – where she thought she'd be safe."

Sarah leaned over and slapped Lisa on back of the head. "Shuuut up!"

Susan ignored the sibling rivalry and said, "Don't let Philip worry you, Chad. He is one to throw a fit – loud and intimidating, nothing more. He does have a temper, and that is why I never liked him. Sarah. I always thought he was too much like your father... in some ways."

Sarah stood up, " _Ag nee_ _man_! I'm going to fix some cocoa and go to bed."

***

For the next few days, the stranded campers embraced a strange serenity – a forgotten sense of normality. They had time and energy to observe rare shades of orange, purple, and red intermingling as the colossal African sun conquered the western horizon. Late into the evenings, they sat content under a canopy of stars, planets, and constellations that silently declare human beings are finite and the majesty of the universe will never fade. They arose from their nights' sleep refreshed enough to enjoy the sweet songs of exotic birds, inviting the dawn to take charge.

During the next two days, Sarah and Chad spent every moment they had exploring the potential of what could be and what would be. They immersed themselves in one another, allowing emotions they had so carefully restrained the freedom to burst into a wondrous and frightful love.

Overshadowing their newly discovered freedom was Susan's edict, "When your dad gets back, you'll have to keep things under the covers. Um, I didn't mean that. I mean under wraps. Oh, you know what I mean! Just tell him later. We should just keep the peace when he returns."

Chad chuckled at the statement. "Don't worry, we'll put the brakes on. We'll park it in the garage when he gets back."

Susan frowned at Chad's remark.

Chad said, "Not to worry, it'll be fine." Chad felt distinct irritation at Susan's mandate to pretend for the sake of the family, but he understood that love demanded that he respect this insane demand.

***

Peter sat with Susan having morning coffee, watching the dawn usher in a new day.

Susan said with some resignation in her voice, "He'll be back today. I have a feeling."

"That's good. That'd be good."

"Yes." Susan's tone offered no such confidence.

Peter decided she was looking for permission to say more. "It has been kind of peaceful...um..."

"Without him?"

"Yeah. No. I'm sorry that sounds a bit rude. It's—"

"No, it's not rude at all. Peter, you don't know. You just do not know how hard it is. I try to keep the peace. I try to keep the children out of it." She paused and took a deep breath, then sighed. "I'm tired. I'm very, very tired, Peter." She tossed the dregs of her coffee on the campfire and shook her head. Then, with an upbeat tone, said, "Thanks for coming with us. It has been wonderful. It has. I hope it hasn't been too... too awkward for you."

"Oh no. It's been fun. It's been good ... great, really. Thanks for having us." Peter laughed. "And it worked out great for Chad, I guess."

"Indeed. That worries me as well, but I knew it was coming. A mother just knows. And it is a good thing. But Johan is so possessive of this family, especially of Sarah. He must learn to let go, and he will in time." Susan paused. Her eyes watered, and her voice quivered. Peter sensed a hidden disgust underneath her tone as she continued, "He makes it so hard. Sometimes I hate him. I love him to death, don't get me wrong. But I really hate him sometimes. Peter, I don't know what to do with that Johan. I don't know what to do with him."

Peter started, then hesitated before he decided he should say it. "Have you ever... ever thought of—?"

"Leaving him? Never. Murder? Countless times. Most days, in fact." Susan composed herself and with a determined voice continued, "Peter, it's my call, my promise, to see it through. That's all that matters, to see it through. Then I can slowly fade away, wrinkled and worn out. Then I will gloat on my grandchildren. Johan will be there, content with the love he's been afraid of for so long. Then life will be good, very good. But... but it is good now. It is. It is not perfect, dear Peter, but it is good. And what did you say? Bad moments will come, but we must embrace the good moments, the good times. We have to cherish the good and the goodness that life does bestow on us."
CHAPTER 19

All Hell Breaks Loose

Sadie did return by lunchtime. Johan gave everyone a huge bear hug and declared, " _Ay_! I so missed each one of you. _Ja_. It is good to be back. We shall now get back to having a grand holiday."

After lunch, he relived the antics of the past few days: how the wrong parts had been sent and returned twice; how he had to instruct the grease monkeys how to do their jobs; and how he embarrassed the garage owner in an all-night poker game (in the end, his winnings were fifty rand shy of the total bill.)

Johan vowed to spend the evening with his family and guests. He dutifully declined an offer to join two Afrikaner families he had partied with before. Their reveling began early and intensified as the evening wore on. Johan tried to ignore the loud music, intrusive bantering, and bursts of laughter and obscenities. He noted several times how annoying those families were.

Obnoxious outbursts increased, and the partiers' chatter became loud enough and clear enough to decipher specific words. Johan expressed disgust that his daughters had to hear such language.

Fellow campers began to complain. Several times, two or three campers approached the offenders with requests to "Keep it down, please."

Each request met with indignation. "We're just having a good time, and we don't fucking care what you think!"

At eleven thirty p.m., Susan became fearful of irate campers planning a full-blown assault. She made a decision she knew she would regret, but she felt she had no choice. "Johan, you're the only one who can deal with these infernal intoxicated Boers. You should go and deal with them, get them to listen to reason. You're the only one they will respect. But please come back soon."

Johan said, "You're right. Don't worry. I'll be back now now. You have some cocoa ready, eh?"

Five minutes later, peace prevailed, with only the occasional outburst of laughter marking another coarse joke. By twelve thirty a.m., though, Johan had not returned, and Susan decided she would have to retrieve him. Halfway there, she could see an all-night poker party was in full swing. _He's beyond redemption. Attempting to drag him back to the family would be a guaranteed disaster and utter nonsense._ She turned around and returned to the campsite. She told the others not to expect Johan anytime soon and curtly commanded all to go to bed before she disappeared into the kombi.

Peter popped his head into the kombi. "He'll be fine, Susan. Please don't worry about it."

Susan shook her head. "We don't know what tomorrow will bring. If he wins a bit of money, he'll take a nap, sober up, and we'll head out for the last day of searching out Africa's wild life. If he loses money, God forbid, he will refuse to take a nap and will order everyone around. We'll take take a quick trip around Kruger, return as early as possible, and he will join his mates for dop and demand a chance to win his money back. Peter, pray he wins a bit of money. But... well, be prepared in case he doesn't."

***

At one a.m., Chad found himself suffering from insomnia. His heart and soul yearned for a few moments with Sarah. He felt he had lost a day with her, and was determined to make up for it. He unzipped the flap to Sarah and Lisa's tent, crawled in, and whispered, "Shhh. Lisa, go sleep in my tent. Don't wake Peter. Just go sleep in my tent for a while."

" _Eish_! Flip! Are you out of your mind?" Sarah muttered, half asleep.

"Get out of here now!" Lisa demanded. "Sarah, get him out of our tent, or I'm going to scream."

Chad crawled further into the tent. "Shhh! I'll give you twenty rand. Twenty rand! Just go in my tent for a bit."

Sarah spoke clear and confidently. "Go, Lisa. I'll give you another twenty rand if you get out of here and shut up about this forever. Forever! You understand? Go!"

"When? When do I get my money?"

"When we get home – but never if you don't get out of here right now!"

***

Peter saw a blurred figure crawling into the tent.

"Are you awake, Peter? Are you?"

"Shit! Damn it, Lisa, what the hell are you doing? Get out of here! You're in the wrong tent. Where's Chad?"

Lisa laughed. "Where do you think? I'm staying here. Unless you can pay me fifty rand, you're stuck with me for the night."

" _Ag_ _man_. Is that what Chad offered you? He doesn't even have fifty rand. Don't trust him."

"They'll pay. I tell everything if they don't."

"God, I don't believe this. I'll kill him. I will. Just be quiet and go to sleep. If your dad finds out we'll all die a slow and horrific death. Geez! I don't believe this."

Lisa climbed into Chad's sleeping bag. She waited until Peter calmed down, and then whispered, "Peter, do you think a guy will ever love me?"

Peter ignored the question.

"Peter, do you think anyone will ever care about me, love me? I don't think anyone ever will."

"Geez, Lisa. What's up with you? Just be quiet and go to sleep."

"No. I'm serious. Sarah's so pretty. She always had guys chasing her. No one ever looks at me. I hate being the ugly sister." Lisa turned her back and began to cry.

"Oh my God! Don't cry. What's going on with you? Good God. Just go to sleep."

She continued to cry.

"All right, Lisa. The truth is ... well, there are plenty of boys pining for you."

"Really? Who?"

"I can't say."

Still sniffling, Lisa whined, "That's because you're lying. You're just saying that to be nice or to get me to shut up."

"All right. Kevin. What's his name? Kevin Berlet."

"Peter! God! No! You just proved my point. God, everyone hates him."

"Why? What's wrong with Kevin?

"He's fat and dumb and he looks like a turtle. That's why they call him 'Snaps.' See ... there's no one for me unless I settle for someone like that."

"That's not true. You're a cute girl, Lisa."

"Cute? Cute! Who wants to be _cute_? I want to be pretty like Sarah. I hate her sometimes."

"You two are different, and that's okay. Look, Lisa, Sarah is pretty enough, but I prefer cute. I don't care for pretty girls. Give me a cute one any day. You're cute, and you should flaunt it. A lot of guys are looking for cute."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Peter."

"Dumb or not, it's true. We're not all pretty people in this world. I don't want to be one of those anyway, most of them aren't real. Most of them are—"

" _Gomgats_ " Lisa said.

"Yeah, I guess you could call it that. I was going say full of shit. Take Chad, for instance. He's completely full of crap, full of himself."

"Does that mean Sarah's full of _kak,_ Peter? I'll tell her you said that."

"No. Sarah's different."

Lisa sat up. "Is that why you love Cindy? 'Cause she's cute?"

"What'd you mean? I don't love her! I don't like her – not like that I mean. Cindy's... she's cute, but she's just a friend, just a good friend."

"But you two hold hands. You cuddle. That's not _just_ friends."

"Well, I don't care what you think. We're just friends, and that's all we'll ever be," Peter said with growing discomfort in his voice.

Lisa moved her face close to his. "Well, we're friends, aren't we? So hold my hand and cuddle with me tonight."

" _Sis_! Hell no! It's not like that. Get away."

Lisa lay back down and laughed. "See? So admit it. You and Cindy are more than friends."

"I suppose it's a little more than that, but I don't want to talk about it, and really, it's none of your business. Okay?"

Lisa sat up in the sleeping bag. "So Kevin's the only one? That's disgusting!" Her voice became loud and indignant.

"There are others."

"Name one."

"Um, there's Bobby."

Declaring more indignation and louder, she said, "Oh my God! Nooo! He stinks. He never takes showers. NOOO! _Sis_! That's disgusting, Peter! That's horrible! _Sis_!"

"Goddamn you, Peter! Goddamn you! You are a dead man!"

The muffled voice exploded from outside the tent just before Peter's sleeping bag was yanked out from under him. He lay stunned for a fraction of a second before he felt his ankles clamped, then his legs flew up. In one swoop, he was out of the tent. Peter felt a punch to his face, followed by another landing square on his left temple. Peter kicked his legs, pushing himself back a few feet. Only then did he see who it was. Johan grabbed his ankles again, pulled him back under his legs, and cocked his arm. With slurred speech and spit landing on Peter's face, Johan declared, "You, my Yankee friend, are about leave this goddamn world!" Johan drew his right arm back to strike again, but he tumbled to the ground before he could land the blow.

Peter had to squint to see Chad standing over Johan. Chad shouted, "You better hit me! Beat me up! I am the one. I'm the one! I've been in Sarah's tent. I love her. I love Sarah. You better deal with that, _dronkie._ "

Johan wobbled as he stood up. He stared at Chad, confused. He looked down at Peter and brandished an embarrassed and foolish grin. Without warning, he spun around and swung his right arm at full force, barely missing Chad, his arm wrapped around his own body.

Chad took a step forward and struck Johan on the right jaw. Johan hit the dirt with a _thud_. Chad straddled the dazed drunk and swung with adrenaline-charged fury: once, twice, three, four, five, six times. It took the strength of Peter and three other men to wrestle Chad off his girlfriend's father.

Susan helped an unsteady Johan to his feet. He muttered several obscenities as she escorted him to the kombi, where he collapsed with bloody lips, a bloody nose, bruised ribs, and an already fuzzy memory of what just happened.

Chad shook off those restraining him and disappeared into the dark. He said later that he did not remember anything that happened after he told Johan he loved Sarah, but that was a lie. He did remember. He remembered seeing and hearing his own father behind that drunken man's eyes – his own father coming at him with words, with fists, with disdain. He remembered striking Johan's face six times, wishing it were his father's face. He remembered thinking, _This is what a father like this deserves_. He remembered everything in vivid detail.

The others returned to their tents. They all pretended to sleep and silently wondered what had just happened and what would happen next.

***

Silence permeated the van during the drive home: no jokes, no teasing, no apologies, no explanations, and no acknowledgement – nothing.

After two hours of hearing only the rattles of the rickety kombi, Chad decided something should be said. He would set aside pride and offer an olive branch in hopes of soothing the damage that he knew threatened the future that had only begun a few nights earlier. He made his way to the front of the van. "About last night... I'm really sorry. I... I don't know what got into me. Johan, I—"

Johan glanced at him and smiled. " _Ag nee_. That is forgotten, my boy."

"I am sorry. I am embarrassed. I hope it won't ruin—"

" _Ag_ _man_! Forget it. That is over and done with."

"Thanks, Johan. I am truly sorry."

Johan looked at Chad again; fiery eyes contrasted a friendly turn of the lips. In a polite and friendly voice, he said, "Just make sure you stay away from daughter, and we will be fine."

Chad cringed at Johan's response. The olive branch was ground into powder and tossed into his face. He felt Johan spoke not as a concerned father protecting his cherished daughter, but as an abusive man hell-bent on controlling his family, a man convinced that it was his sacred duty to hold the pretend family together. Chad's anger began to rise. He bit his upper lip, gave Johan a slight nod of acknowledgement, and headed to the rear of the vehicle. He looked at Sarah; she quickly looked down when their eyes met. Chad plopped down next to Peter who stared out of the window. Chad watched his feet shake with the vibration of the kombi; he felt alone, and he felt terrified about what could happen next.

***

The news greeted Peter and Chad as soon as they arrived home from their camping adventure with the Van den Bergs. Simon held a letter in his hand; he waved it slowly. "You have been summoned to Pretoria on Friday. We must assume they'll demand you leave on Friday. It doesn't look good." He handed them the letter.

Peter read the letter as Chad looked over his shoulder:

... _Concerning the matter of applications for extension of holiday permits for continued stay in South Africa. You are required to present yourselves at the Departement van die Binnelandse Sake at eight a.m. the twenty-first of January 1977 ... It is recommended you bring all belongings and arrange with your airline for flights out of the country..._

It was signed by the _Sekretaresse van die Binnelandse Sake_ (Secretary for the Interior).

Their initial holiday permits had expired on the first week in December. Beginning in October, they had applied for an extension of their temporary holiday permits twice and were denied both times. In November, they applied for work permits. Three times they were summoned to Pretoria to fill out more paperwork, and each time they were told, "The matter is being reconsidered. We will let you know. You must wait for another summons."

The summons they held in their hands was the one they had been dreading. They would now, most certainly discover their fate.

On Friday, they would go to Pretoria and plead their case once again. They hoped they would have enough luck to be assigned to an official who might show them some sympathy. They knew the odds of this bordered near zero, but both were determined to hold on to hope.

After they had read the letter, Simon said, "Get things in order. We'll just have to see what we can do. We'll have to be prepared for Plan B – go to Rhodesia for a month and hope you can return."

Neither was ready to leave: South Africa had much more in store for them. South Africa remained too dear, too enticing, and too important. This country, this land, held too much promise to leave now. They prayed South Africa would not desert them.
CHAPTER 20

**Out with a** _Thud_

After dinner, Simon asked about their holiday. They recounted all their adventures – all except the incident of Chad assaulting Johan on their last evening at Kruger National Park. Both knew Simon had no sympathy for such behavior. He would see it as a betrayal of his trust in them, a betrayal of the church and the people they had come to assist. Perhaps on Friday, they would tell him, or perhaps they would never tell him at all. They had not decided.

Chad rode Simon's bike to Sarah's home on Monday morning. When he got there, the kombi was gone. _Thank God. Johan's back at work, so it's safe_. He found Sarah sunbathing in the back garden, wearing skimpy shorts and a red bathing suit top. He stood staring at her before she noticed him. Her simple, unpretentious beauty stirred his soul. _How can anyone be so beautiful and not even flaunt it, not even now it? She is so unlike those cheerleader types I've spent my life pursuing and using. They're so pretentious in their assumptions of being irresistible and so annoying with their endless demands for affirmation of how beautiful they are. Sarah has no need for such acknowledgement. She does not know how beautiful she is, and she does not care. She's amazing._ Chad shook his thoughts away. "Howzit?" Chad said, trying to hide his fear that she would tell him to get lost.

"Chad? What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here."

He forced feigned confidence. "We've got to talk. That's why. We need to talk."

She looked away. "We can't, okay?"

"Don't be so obstinate."

Still avoiding his eyes, she declared, "You'd better leave."

Chad took her shoulders and turned them square with his. "I love you. God, I love you. I _smaak_ you _stukkend_."

A tear made its way down the base of her nose, and she slowly and deliberately wiped it away. She whispered, "Maybe you do, but it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters! It's the only thing that matters. You and me, that's the only thing that matters." Chad leaned over and gently kissed her lips, then put his forehead against hers. "Tell me you don't love me."

"You're a fool, Chad. You are such a _mompie_."

"I don't care. Tell me you don't love me."

Sarah pulled back and looked away. "What if I don't?"

"Tell me you don't."

"My dad is going to kill you."

Chad leaned back and shook his head. "Don't worry about that. He's gonna be mad for a while, but he won't kill me. He'll get over it, even if it takes weeks, months, or years. He will get over it."

"You don't know my father."

"Sarah, this is about us, not your dad. It's about you and me. Look at me."

She refused.

Chad persisted. "I love you ... and I know you love me."

"What if I tell you I don't love you enough?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Well, I'm sorry, I am. I love you. God, I love you, but not enough to sacrifice my family."

"So you'd go with your Boer bodybuilder wannabe to keep your family happy? To keep your alcoholic dad happy? You deserve better than either one of them. I'm sorry, Sarah, but they're just abusers. You—"

She looked at Chad with eyes bulging. " _Ag_ _man_! Shut up. _Hou jou bek!_ Go to hell, Chad!" She beat his chest several times with an open right hand. "Don't! Do not talk about my dad like that. Don't you dare! You don't know anything. You don't know anything about my father. _Voertsek_!"

"I know what he does to you, to your mom, your sister."

" _Voertsek_ man! Go! Just go, Chad!"

"Sarah, I love you like I've never loved anyone. You deserve better. I know you love your dad. I know you do. But you can't change him by being his little girl, his princess, for the rest of your life."

"Please go." Sarah bit her lower lip. Her countenance softened. Then her strong, confident eyes welled with tears which she seemed determined to keep hidden. "Please leave."

Chad stepped back and turned away from her. "We go to Pretoria on Friday. We'll probably have to leave. If we do, it'll give you some time ... but I promise I'll come back for you. I know you love me. flipping hell, I love you enough for both of us."

"Just go, Chad."

***

A quiet knock at the door disturbed Peter's mindless moment as he sat staring at the stripes of the zebra hide on the floor. Cindy greeted him with an excited, girlish grin. She blurted her sentences out with no pause for response. "I heard you got back early. I thought you would call. I couldn't wait to see you. I thought you might write. God, I'm glad to see you." She flung her arms around him and held him as tightly as she dared.

Her touch always stirred confused emotions – he needed to push her away. He wanted her embrace to linger forever. Whenever they touched, waves of guilt mingled with waves of excitement.

They sat on the ground in the back garden watching the sunset. Peter described the rollercoaster ride they had experienced over the past twelve days. He described in detail the cruel and tragic climax that had destroyed the dreams of two young lovers. Then Peter told her about the summons to Pretoria with the certain assumption it would lead to deportation.

At that news, Cindy nestled up to Peter, putting her cheek next to his. When Peter stiffened, Cindy asked him, "Well, what about us? What are we going to do?"

Peter pulled back from her. "I... I don't know. I really don't know. We'll go to Rhodesia and see if we can get back in a month or so. "

"You think you will be able to come back?"

Peter showed little emotion in his response. "Can't be sure. Maybe. I hope so, but maybe not."

Cindy's eyes brightened. "Then I want to go to America. I'll come and see you as soon as I can."

"That'd be silly, Cindy. It's a long way, and it costs a lot of money. It's a crazy idea, and you really shouldn't bother."

"Peter, what are you saying?"

Peter shook his head. "It just seems too unrealistic." He realized that this was his moment to be clear, to be firm. _Tell her now that our friendship simply does not call for that kind of sacrifice, that kind of commitment. Tell her now!_

He was about to speak when Cindy said with her trademark childlike innocence, "You coming here was unrealistic, but you came. If you can do it, so can I." She reached out and put her hand on the back of his head, pulled his head down, and pressed their foreheads together.

"I suppose so. But... but I hope I can come back. I want to come back. I want to do more with Roger and Dumisani. I'll be back."

Cindy flung her arms around him and squeezed him as tightly as her small frame would allow. "I'll never let you go, Peter. I will never let go of you."

Peter closed his eyes and accepted her naïve, sweet, healing love. He wished to God that he had love to give her in return. He wished to God that he felt something more for her. He had tried to will himself to love her for so many weeks, but that love never came. He hated that he could not love her as she deserved, and worse, he hated that she assumed he did. He had stolen her love, and for that he felt tremendous shame – but he wanted, he needed this love.

***

On Thursday, they occupied themselves with mundane activities: washing clothes, writing letters, packing bags, cleaning just for the sake of staying occupied – all of this done in silence.

Little had been said between Peter and Chad since returning from holiday. One or the other would offer a polite but superficial comment at times, just to prove _they_ were the bigger person.

Peter sat in the kitchen talking and laughing with Themba as she recounted the latest innocent antics of her children. Peter would miss those privileged talks that allowed him a glimpse into the heart and world of this beautiful African's life. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. "Thank you for all you've done for us, Themba, and for all you've given me. _Yu, u nobuntu_."

Embarrassed, she looked down at the floor but then back up again with a smile. She gave a quick but accepting embrace. " _Dankie,_ Peter."

***

Before he could knock, Chad opened the front door and greeted the visitor with an exaggerated show of pleasure. "Well, well. _Hoe gaan dit_ , bru?"

Clearly, Philip saw no need for being civil or cordial. "I know about your _kak_ at Kruger, man! You have no business with Sarah. You have no business attacking her father."

"I don't believe any of that is your concern," Chad spoke curtly. Stress had taken its toll, and he would enjoy a good fight just to relieve his pent-up anger and tension.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but there'll be no more warnings!" Saliva spewed from Philip's mouth as if he were a dog gone mad.

"Bloody hell! You are living in the eighteenth century, bru. Women make their own decisions. We don't duel for their affection anymore. Bloody hell! You can't force Sarah to love you, and neither can I. So don't make this about me. Anyway, like I said, none of it is your business. I suggest you leave now."

Philip lurched toward Chad. "You're wrong! This is about me and you. Make no mistake, _bru_."

Chad looked up and down at Philip. He chuckled and said, "God! I don't believe you. You are such a plank, a Boer. You are a Neanderthal Boer."

Philip knocked a chair over, threw his chest out, and raised clenched fists, which caused Chad to shake his head and laugh. Philip threw another chair out of his way screaming, "To hell with you, Yank!"

Responding to the commotion, Peter came in with Themba following close behind.

Philip looked at Peter, then Themba. With hate-filled scorn, he barked out, "There's your Kaffir-loving pussy come to save you!"

With no time for Philip to turn his head back toward Chad, Peter took two steps forward and plowed his right fist into Philip's jaw. While still stunned, Peter landed a second blow with his left hand, throwing the stocky Afrikaner slightly off balance. When the third punch hit its mark, a _thud_ on the floor shook the windows. Peter shouted, "Don't you ever say that word in front of a Black person or in front of me! Get your fat ass out of this house! Crawl back into your fantasy world where you can pretend to be somebody!" He then buried his left leg deep into Philip's lower gut.

Philip slowly got up and staggered out the door yelling, "Gaan naai 'n koei!"

Peter and Chad looked at each other and smiled. They looked at Themba, her mouth frozen wide open. Chad asked, "What does that mean?"

Themba looked at the floor and quietly said, "I believe it is rather rude. I'd rather not say, but it involves a cow."

The three burst into laughter.

That evening, Peter and Chad did not mention to Simon what had happened in the afternoon. To tell that story would mean revealing the debacle of their last night at Kruger. They ate dinner, finished packing, had tea, and went to bed wondering what fate would bring the following morning.

***

A perfect summer day accompanied them on their journey to the beautiful city of Pretoria on Friday. They took little notice of the weather or the city. After two hours of waiting in lines and filling out papers, they were led to that prestigious office to meet the judge who would pronounce his decision: "You are to leave South Africa and never return!"

They thought it impossible, but Simon somehow had the _persona non grata_ rescinded. With a large grin, he recounted how he was able to locate a Mr. Andrew Peinkorsky who knew his father at university. He assured the well-placed bureaucrat that he was responsible for his American friends and that their stay had been simple and banal. True, they had violated their holiday permits, but Simon assured Mr. Peinkorsky that they had made every effort to get extensions and had tried to obtain work permits for their 'volunteer' work at the church. Simon summed up his defense to the more sympathetic official. "Certainly this harsh dictate of _persona non grata_ is unnecessary."

Mr. Peinkorsky took the stamped papers and issued others that would not flag Peter and Chad as renegades too dangerous to reenter their beloved country. Their dreams, their destiny had not been lost – at least not yet.

***

As they drove to the airport, Simon said, "Now Richard is a good man. Married now, with a son... no, two. Yes, he has two sons, I believe. He is still a truck driver, I'm fairly sure. He was always the wild one in my family – free spirited, coarse, and bit of a drinker. They moved a year or two ago, and I haven't heard from him in a while. I only know they're in West Nicolson, north of Bulawayo. I am sure you can find his number once you're there. It shouldn't be a problem for him to pick you up, and stay with him a while. It should be just fine."

Peter worried about all the 'shoulds' in the plan, but he had no choice other than trusting Simon. After all, it was all his idea.

***

They boarded the first flight to Bulawayo, Rhodesia. They located Simon's brother Richard rather easily, just as Simon had promised. He even sounded enthusiastic about meeting his brother's American friends.

That is how a new chapter began. Even in their wildest imagination, they could not have conjured up the events that lay before them – events that would alter their lives and their hearts forever.
PART III

January 21 - March 3, 1977

CHAPTER 21

Bush War

Heat waves billowing off the tarmac greeted Chad and Peter as they disembarked at the Bulawayo Airport. They phoned Simon's brother and received instructions to take the bus to the train station in Bulawayo. They were to wait in a car park in front of the hospital near the station.

They boarded the local bus and squeezed into minute gaps in the already-packed aisle. Peter was sure the stench of sweaty bodies would cause him to pass out. As more individuals crammed into the bus, he feared there would not be enough air to share. He closed his eyes and endured the twenty-minute ride, careful to take in only short, shallow breaths so as not to inhale the wretched aroma.

The streets around the train station bustled more with people than cars. Only a few white faces appeared among the thousand and one Black faces, all walking determinedly to countless destinations. Occasionally, a car would honk its horn and herd the people off the road onto dusty footpaths. The dust ignited an occasional irritating sneeze from Peter that always caused Chad to jump and declare, "Don't do that!" or "Cover your mouth, man!"

Peter and Chad surveyed the area for some shade but found none. Only a few trees were dotted about and even they were straggly, offering little relief from the African sun. They settled on a bench near a small car park in front of the hospital; both kept looking around, as if a shady area would appear suddenly out of nowhere.

After twenty minutes of waiting, Peter commented to Chad, "Have you noticed the Blacks here? They dress better... than the Africans in South Africa. They even walk different. It's like they're more confident or something. Did you notice that?"

Chad answered flatly, "Not really."

"Well, it shows you what apartheid does. With no apartheid, the Africans feel better about themselves and have more pride. They haven't been told they are subhuman, and they can be at home in their own country, their own skin. Don't you see it?"

Chad looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and said "Maybe so, but it's still White rule here."

At four-thirty p.m., both were jolted out of their sparse conversation. Peter's heart missed a beat. It sounded like a small explosion or gunfire. Nervous laughter came when they realized it was a car backfiring. That same car, a 1970 Ford Capri, hooted and made its way through a crowd of young people waiting at the bus stop. The car slowed, and a voice called out, "You two? Are you the mates of Simon?"

Both nodded.

The car made a U-turn and pulled up beside them. Two people got out. Richard and Amanda hurriedly introduced themselves. Richard opened the trunk; he pulled out a rifle and handed it to his wife.

As they got into the car, Amanda cocked the rifle, placed the butt on the top of the front seat and the barrel on the dashboard. She wrapped her arm around the rifle, placed her finger on the trigger guard and stated, "We're ready. Let's roll. The terrs, they prefer to come out at night."

Richard drove fast, very fast.

Amanda explained, "We've got 140 kilometers to cover before dark. There's lots of bush along this road, places the terrs could easily hide, ready to ambush. This old rifle is just a precaution. I've never had to use ... yet."

Richard chuckled. "The old thing is nothing to brag about, but all you have to do is shoot in their direction, and they scatter like spooked rabbits. They are very easily deterred. A few shots over their heads, and they're gone. Cowards at heart. That's what terrorists are – bloody cowards, all of 'em."

Amanda said, "I really wouldn't want to kill anyone. That would be too much. But if it comes down to us or them... well... But even a skilled marksman couldn't hit the side of a house with this old thing."

"I would bring my machine gun if I could. I drive a cattle truck cross-country, and the company recently issued drivers machine guns to take on our runs. I'd love to bring the baby along with me everywhere, but policy says it's for work only. And Amanda couldn't handle it anyway."

"I certainly do not care to try."

Richard continued, sounding like a relaxed and seasoned tour guide sharing interesting tidbits to gawking sightseers. "The guerillas, terrorists, terrs... murderers is what they are. And they want to be called 'freedom fighters.' Bloody hell! They travel around the country in small packs like wild dogs. They're very unorganized. Mostly they're in rural areas, like the farms and ranches. Those are their favorite targets because those people are so vulnerable. But lately, villages and small towns are becoming more popular for the terrs. The more people that are there, the more they can kill, and the greater the terror."

Amanda's tone became subdued. "They have even started attacking churches and missions. It is horrible, terrible. Those poor people are defenseless. They rarely have weapons."

"Geez! Why's that?" Chad wondered.

Richard responded, "Church policy. Crazy, I know, but they have nonviolent policies. Such nonsense, but there it is. It's suicide for the church people, and the missionaries. Like sleeping kudus waiting to ripped apart by starving lions."

"They're supposed to trust God, I guess," Chad said, with slight sarcasm in this tone.

Richard replied, "That's true. However, I will trust my God and use my gun. I want both, that's for certain. We need both, eh? God and guns. Give me my God, and give me my gun!"

Amanda added, "God has no problem using a gun in this country."

Suddenly, Richard pushed the accelerator down. The car quickly topped 130 kilometers an hour. His voice picked up its own pace as the car accelerated. "This area we're driving through, they sighted some terrorists not far from here, only two days ago. We want to make haste around here. A family of six was killed last week, a bit to the north, probably about twenty kilometers from here. Friends at our church knew the father's dad. The bastards have been at some ranches not that far from here. Two ranchers were attacked yesterday at a place about thirty kilometers west, but they scared them off. The majority of attacks in the past fortnight have been fifty-K or so to the northwest. It's dotted with farms and ranches out that way."

Amanda added, "The most dangerous places are near the borders of Mozambique and Zambia. That's where they come across. The closer to the border, the greater the danger."

Richard jumped in. "They had five tourists—"

Amanda noticed Peter and Chad looking at one another with wide eyes. She interrupted, "Richard, that's enough." She looked at them and changed to an upbeat tone, "I am sorry. We're making it sound terrible. It really is not so horrific. We live in a safe town. The populated areas are quite safe; only a few problems now and then. Life really goes on as usual. But tell us about yourselves. And you must tell us about Simon. I've never even met him! I've been married ten years and have never met that brother-in-law of mine."

Peter said, "Simon did say that he's never met you or your kids. He really regrets that. But, yeah, he's doing well. He's an engineer of some sort at Iscor, and he does a lot at the church."

The car began to slow down somewhat, and Richard's pace slowed as well. "Sounds like Simon. Still the workaholic, just like Dad. Where did you two meet him?"

While Chad recounted their story of meeting back in the Sooner State, Peter couldn't help obsessing over the stories he had just heard about terrorists here, there, and everywhere. He felt a wave of anxiety. Suddenly, he wanted to be somewhere else – he should not be in such a place. He took several deep breaths and told himself, _It's safe where we're going._

At dusk, they arrived in West Nicolson. Walking through the door of the bungalow, they were greeted by wildlife figurines, copper-plated pictures of giraffes and elephants, and a few animal skins on the red tiled floors. _Just like home,_ Peter thought.

On the far wall of the living room were countless family pictures. As Chad examined the photos, Richard said, "That's our 'wall of happy,' as the boys like to call it. Those are our two boys, Andrew and Nick. Nick is nine and Andrew's seven. After we eat, Amanda will pick them up from the neighbor's house. I trust you two are good and hungry?"

Peter said, "Oh, yeah. And whatever it is, it smells delicious."

"Sure does." Chad affirmed. Then he pointed to one picture of the two boys standing drenched in front of a massive waterfall. "That's Victoria Falls, isn't it?"

Richard said, "Yes. That was our holiday last year. Tremendous, isn't it? The natives called it 'The Smoke That Thunders.' It's absolutely incredible. The thunder of the water raging down the falls creates a never-ending cloud of mist that is seen and heard from miles away. Truly amazing. One of the wonders of the world."

Chad turned to Peter. "We are going to go there. We can't come to Rhodesia and miss The Smoke That Thunderrrrs," Chad said, projecting the last syllable in a deep, intense growl.

Peter nodded.

They adjourned to the dining room and their maid, Sonja, dished up their meal. Thick, juicy T-bones covered their plates.

"We have the best steak on the continent. Rhodesia is famous for her beef. It is our biggest export," Richard declared proudly as he watched the Americans take their first taste of the succulent meat.

"By far the best steak I have ever had," Peter said as he finished his first bite of the sixteen-ounce, medium-rare, cut-it-with-a-fork delicacy.

With his mouth still chomping, Chad agreed, "This is an incredible piece of beef. Wow!"

Richard nodded with a satisfied smile.

Andrew and Nick arrived home and immediately latched on to their two unique visitors. They spent half an hour showing their visitors the wall of photographs, describing in minute detail the story behind each picture. They reveled in describing how one or the other had gotten into trouble before or after each particular picture was taken.

The young boys insisted Peter and Chad read them their stories as they went to bed. The two youngsters delighted in Chad's rendition of Dr. Seuss's _Cat in the Hat_ , read in what Chad considered a posh English accent. Peter read _Hop on Pop_ with an exaggerated Southern drawl that left all four laughing uncontrollably for twenty minutes and delayed sleep another half hour for the children.

As Chad prepared to turn the light out, Andrew asked about the uncle they had never met. Chad gave a vivid description of their long-lost uncle. He told them he looked just like the grandfather they had only seen twice in their lives.

"Why is it that Uncle Simon has never come to visit us?" Nick asked.

Both stammered a bit before Peter finally said, "He's just very busy. He wants to come see you very much. Maybe you could give us some pictures to take back. He would like that."

Both agreed, and Andrew said, "Can we call you 'Uncle Peter' and 'Uncle Chad'? Can we?"

"We would like that very much," Chad whispered as he turned the light out.

***

The following day, Peter and Chad joined Richard and Amanda for a round of golf. As they drove to the local golf course, Amanda said, "We just started playing. We're terrible at it, but it is a wonderful diversion from the reality of living in a war-torn country."

The four teed off on a warm summer morning.

Two young Africans boys came out of nowhere and attached themselves to the foursome. "We have our caddies," Richard said. Both boys were about ten years old and spoke limited English. They chattered between themselves in their native language, often laughing and always smiling.

Peter asked what language they spoke, and Richard informed them that their first language was Ndebele, the most prominent Bantu language spoken in Zimbabwe. "The tribe is called the Matabele," he said. "They actually branched off from the Zulu nation in the 1820s, so they're close kin to the Zulus in South Africa. They are a very kind and thoughtful people, a people with a great deal of pride."

Peter noticed the old rifle among the clubs in one of the golf bags.

"Just a little insurance," Richard said when he caught Peter looking at the extra piece of equipment. He went on, "At the seventh hole, the bushes and undergrowth gets pretty dense, thick enough to hide any terrs planning to wreak havoc. Nothing has ever happened here, so not to worry. We just have to be cautious."

Peter nodded and told himself his hosts would not put him in harm's way. Peter swung at his teed ball four times before he hit it, sending it twenty meters in the wrong direction. "I told you I shouldn't be doing this! This cow pasture pool. Those caddies are going to earn their tips today. I hope I don't lose too many of your golf balls, Richard."

"Not to worry," Richard replied.

Chad gave the three beginners several tips on improving their swings. His countless summer days and weekends at the country club had not gone to waste. With his friend's help, Peter gained a little confidence and began to enjoy the game, much to his surprise.

When they teed off at the seventh hole, Amanda kept her hand on the rifle. Richard pulled back, preparing to swing, when Amanda, in a swift but also clumsy motion, pulled the rifle out of the bag. She pointed toward rustling brush as two figures appeared. Two gunshots rang out; two bodies fell to the ground. Amanda hysterically shouted, "I didn't... I shouldn't... My God! Richard! My God!"

"It's okay! It's okay!" Richard said as he grabbed a revolver hidden in a side pocket of his golf bag and began walking slowly toward two young African boys, about fourteen or fifteen. They lay motionless as he approached them.

Richard leaned toward them and asked, "Are you fellows okay?" Both looked up and nodded. "God, I am so sorry! She wasn't aiming at you. She couldn't have hit you if she was. Really, I am sorry!" After shoving the handgun under his belt, Richard helped the two boys up and handed them the large sticks they had been carrying. "I am very sorry. That was quite a scare for you and us."

They laughed, though in a guarded manner.

Richard shook their hands, and they walked to the far side of the fairway.

Amanda remained frantic. "I could have killed them! God, I could have killed those boys, not much older than my own sons!"

Richard embraced his wife and chuckled. "It's okay. Calm down now. If you'd been trying to hit them, you wouldn't have come close. Don't worry, honey. There is no harm done. No harm done, love." His lighted-hearted manner had no effect on his distraught wife.

Their young caddies had stood watching, showing no emotion. One finally spoke to the other in Ndebele. Both looked at Amanda with intense disgust and walked away.

They went straight home. Amanda spent ten minutes looking for some diazepam a neighbor had recently given her. When she found it, she retreated to her bedroom.
CHAPTER 22

Terror Next Door

Richard shocked Peter and Chad with an invitation to join Amanda and himself at a midweek church meeting. Simon had painted him as a diehard pagan with no interest in faith of any kind. He described Richard as the black sheep of the family – the one offspring hell-bent on proving that being the prodigal son was, after all, worthwhile. Beginning at age twelve, Richard had fought with their father _and_ preacher doggedly every Sunday morning about having to go to church. At thirteen, he argued incessantly about the ridiculousness of religion just to antagonize his father and see how red his face would become. By the time he was fifteen, he had begun drinking and staying out all night: a declaration to his father, and to his father's God, that he rejected both. George finally admitted defeat and stopped making apologies to concerned parishioners on behalf of his embarrassingly wayward son, and both father and son stopped talking about or to each other.

Though neither Simon nor George would ever admit it, they had long ago given up on second chances. George never believed that his wayward son might have changed, though the man made his living preaching hope for such change. When George refused to respond to Richard's letters about meeting an eighteen-year-old girl named Amanda, about their plans to marry, and then the birth of his grandsons, Richard decided there was no point in trying to communicate. He and Simon did occasionally remember each other's birthdays but neither thought anything of it when the other forgot. George had seen his grandchildren on the two occasions Amanda visited her family in Krugersdorp. Both times, he said, "I must come to Rhodesia to visit you." He never followed through.

After Richard gave the invitation he said, "Perhaps it's odd, but more and more people are finding that faith is real and is important. Yes, you need some kind of faith, some kind of God to get you through times like this. We need faith to get through the uncertainty, the chaos, and the death that's... that's all around. How can you face such things without belief in some sort of God?"

Peter nodded in agreement to be polite, but he was not quite sure how faith was supposed to make hatred, death, and terror any better.

***

The meeting was at a church ten miles from West Nicolson. Fifteen people, including couples and individuals, were already engaged in animated discussion when they arrived. Each one had a rifle or pistol tucked underneath their chair.

The group was debating whether they should have the meeting so late in the evening; many were worried about having to drive home in the dark. They deliberated for several minutes until all agreed that there were no other options. Each stated they were willing to face the risk.

With that decided, they began sharing the latest reports from friends and family members, detailing the location of recent attacks and speculating where terrorists groups were most likely to be lurking.

A husky man with a bushy, graying mustache, perhaps sixty, said, "A couple was killed at a farm twenty kilometers north. They say the terrs used armor-piercing bullets. These bullets," he sighed, "well, they say they will go straight through ten-inch walls. We know where those bullets, those AK 47s, come from." He looked at Peter, then Chad and shook his head. "Russia! Bloody Russia. This ups the ante, does it not? They do not even have to get close anymore. They can shoot from forty or fifty meters away and blow our brains out."

His wife, a heavyset woman pristinely dressed and adorned with expensive-looking jewelry that begged for attention, interrupted her husband. "Never mind that. Their poor children are orphans now. They'll be living with their aunt. I understand she will be moving back to England soon. Bradley was their name, Jenny and Adam Bradley. I knew her mother long ago, though I never met her daughter. So tragic. Those poor, poor orphaned children." She shook her head slowly.

A young man in his early thirties with thick red hair and a closely trimmed beard stated he had recently been to the Bradley ranch to repair some fences and add lights to the front gate. "Adam had just lost a brother who lived at Balla Balla. He was a teacher at St. Stephens College, the boarding school there. That happened last month. He lived on the outskirts of town. They attacked his home; his wife and children were away at the store. They came home and found him beaten to death."

The adorned, heavyset woman spoke again. "And just think about that attack last week at St. Paul's Mission in Lupane! Those two missionaries, young women, murdered so brutally. And that attack last month at the Musami Mission – seven... seven Roman Catholic missionaries massacred. These terrorists have no shame. No shame. Imagine targeting orphanages, missions, churches. Have they no conscience?"

A white-haired, elderly man spoke very slowly and deliberately. "My daughter lives near Lupane, about ten kilometers from there. She and her husband have a small farm there. There is a cattle ranch a few kilometers north. James, the rancher, told my daughter that four, maybe five terrorists came to the gate of the ranch, but they turned away. They heard this from one of the terrs that was captured. He talked about going to that ranch. He said... he said that as they approached the ranch, they saw two very large soldiers guarding the gate. When they saw the guards, they turned and ran away. The family knew of no such guards or soldiers. Now, James swore it was angels watching over that ranch. I don't know about that, but perhaps it is true. Perhaps we should take comfort in such a story."

The others agreed.

Peter's mind wandered off as he thought about it. He was sure such a tale must be simple folk lore and not to be taken seriously. He dare not say what he was thinking and told himself that if such fairytales encouraged a terrified people, they should be allowed to hold on to these fantastic accounts of miracles.

After Peter and Chad introduced themselves, explaining how they happened to come to Rhodesia, there was a short Bible study. Peter paid little attention, as he was still thinking about the all the stories he had heard: stories of war, stories of death and grief, stories of terror all around – of terror next door.

Then the group prayed. They prayed for those who had died, for those who had lost loved ones, and for those who were fighting an intractable war. Then they prayed for peace and for the ability not to hate.

At the end of the prayers, a young pregnant woman, whose husband was serving in the Rhodesian army, spoke up for the first time. "I... I feel so very bad. I wrestle with this. Yesterday, I heard of that terrorist – the one who died falling into Victoria Falls trying to escape. I wanted to shout for joy. I wanted to praise God. I wanted to see more die. It is so hard not to hate – not to want revenge. It is so hard not to pray for them to die horrible deaths. Sometimes I do. I don't want to be like that. I feel so bad that my heart rejoices when someone dies, no matter who they are."

That comment sparked a solemn discussion. Some said they wrestled with the same confusion and guilt. Others were adamant that praying for the death of terrorists and rejoicing at their demise was not only understandable, but also right and necessary. Emotions swelled, and the intensity began to cause both Peter and Chad to squirm.

Richard had avoided getting involved in the discussion. Finally, he sighed loudly and carefully and hesitantly said, "Well, I don't know what's right or wrong. I just know I do not want my life destroyed by hatred. Sometimes I do pray that more die. Other times, I pray they will be saved. I am beginning to feel the only thing I can pray is that God's will be done on Earth as it is in heaven, and I pray that His kingdom come. I will pray that. And I know I must pray that hatred and bitterness do not take over my heart, for that is something we should all fear."

All journeyed home with the barrels of their rifles resting on their dashboards, with fingers on the triggers.

***

The next Sunday evening, Peter and Chad found themselves at a special service, a gathering of several churches in the area, including a few Zionist Christian churches which are strong African churches in both Rhodesia and South Africa. Neither wanted to go, but they could not turn down the invitation of their endearing hosts.

A formidable Black man with a surprisingly soft and raspy voice served as the speaker for the evening. His face bore scars not easily hidden. His name was Joshua Mokoena, an elder in his village near the Mozambique border. He spoke English with obvious difficulty, but he spoke deliberately, taking care to stress each syllable uttered. "Terrorists, a band of six, enter our village. They did bring liquor and much food. And for our children ... they bring many toys. Many were taken by this kindness. Others feared them, knowing they were men not to be trusted. They stayed with us three days, spending much time with our children – too much time with our young people. They taught our young people many new songs about revolution.

"After three days, they proudly announced, 'We are members of the Zimbabwe African National Union, ZANU. We are here serving Robert Mugabe, our esteemed leader. We are inviting you to join with us, to give us support, to offer your money, your food, and your honored children to fight for our great leader and for our great country.'

"We refuse and ask them to leave. The terrorists then took our leaders and their wives into center of the village. They beat the men and rape the women. Then... then they cut off the lips of three outspoken village elders. They fried these lips and made the wives eat their husbands' flesh." Joshua's voice began to tremble. He stopped and stood silent. Then, with a more forceful, more confident voice, he continued, "We stood firm despite this torture. They left, forcing three of our young sons to join them. They promise to return and bring more sorrow if we continue to resist. This is the war we fight, my friends, but we are ready for them to return. When they come again, we will tell them again of God's love, God's forgiveness. We will talk again of the way of peace. This time, we will invite them to join us."

Joshua then introduced a young man, barely eighteen. He spoke in a timid, apologetic manner. He began by declaring, "I was a terrorist. I killed many innocent people. Last year, we entered a church and gathered three priests and four nuns. In their sanctuary, we made them kneel. We told them to pray to their God to save them. We beat them, one at a time, while each prayed. We used our bayonets to kill them, one at a time. Each prayed as they died. They prayed that God would show his love to us terrorists."

The young man paused and allowed tears to slide down his cheeks before he went on. "We went away rejoicing that we had fought bravely, that we had killed, that we had hurt the White oppressors and gave them more reason to fear. However, when I went to bed that night, only those prayers are in my head. They echoed in my head until I got on my knees and asked God to forgive me. I live now knowing that God can and will forgive. He can even forgive killers, even me. Now I ask for you to forgive me. I ask for you to pray for me, for our people, for our country."

Joshua stood and embraced his young brother. "We shall close with a hymn written by a White slave trader, a man who saw thousands die in his slave ships, a slave trader who repented and discovered that God did, indeed, forgive his atrocities. Let us sing 'Amazing Grace.'"

***

Peter and Chad discussed the meeting as they lay in their beds that night. They found it hard to believe such stories could be true.

"Perhaps it is just propaganda meant to scare and unnerve people," Peter said.

Chad replied, "Yeah, or maybe that young terrorist was really just a storyteller, an actor, paid to stir up our emotions so they can fill their pockets. Maybe it's not so different from those bullshit faith healings churches used to get people to dump their life savings in the offering plate."

Peter sat up and looked at Chad. "We shouldn't be so cynical, you know, but I just can't believe humans can be so... my God, so inhuman, so evil. How could they do such terrible things?"

Chad muttered, "I know, but Peter, how can they think God so easily forgives such evil?"

"I could never forgive those murderers," Peter declared.

"Hell no! And I will never believe in a God that overlooks such cruelty and still opens His arms to the monsters that participate in it. If that's too cynical, then ... well, I'm sorry."
CHAPTER 23

The Letters

Despite the Bush War, day-to-day life continued with determined normality. Peter and Chad decided to ignore the unrelenting conversations of ambushes and attacks in remote areas of the country. With 100 Rhodesian dollars between them, they ventured out from West Nicolson to take the train to Bulawayo. After a few nights in this truly African city, they would take a train to the nation's capital, Salisbury, before they found a way to Victoria Falls.

Bulawayo's main streets bustled with thousands of people walking determinedly. Peter remarked several times to Chad that he felt conspicuous in the sea of black faces and was too keenly aware of how White they both were. He remarked at one point, "We're easy targets for any would-be terrorists who feel bold enough to make a statement in a large city."

Chad agreed. "True, but are you going to keep going on about it all day. Enough already!"

Peter's trepidation waned as he interacted with many friendly, accepting locals. At the end of the day, he remarked, "I love this place!"

The first night at the youth hostel, as they ate cheese sandwiches and drank lemon squash, Peter carefully added up what had been spent that day. "The hostel is $1.50. Stamps, geez! Thirty-five cents! No more aerograms the next two days, okay? Our meals came to... $1.55. Oh, plus that ice cream after lunch, which was forty cents. Darn, there was the taxi. What was it? Shoot... seventy-five cents. The locker was five cents. Let's see ... that's $4.60. Just under budget, and that's pretty good."

Chad sneered, irritated with Peter's obsessive bookkeeping. He muttered, "Wonderful." He had always spent his money without thinking, yet it had never run out. A budget, he assumed, was just for poor people. He started to say something sarcastic, but he caught himself and bit his tongue.

Peter continued, "That leaves $96.40. We'll be okay if we stick to the budget. We might even have a little left over for a few souvenirs if we're careful. You know, if we hitchhike to Salisbury we'd save seven dollars."

"Hitchhike? Are you crazy? No way! What would my mom – your mom – say if they knew we were hitchhiking across terrorist-saturated Africa? Sometimes you're cheapskate ways get quite ridiculous, Peter. Really."

"So we don't tell our moms. What they do not know will not scare them to death. We'd save a lot of money if we go ahead and do hitchhike," Peter said as he went back over his calculations.

Chad snarled again. "No way, bru."

Peter said no more about it.

***

The following night at the hostel, they befriended a scruffy sojourner who claimed to have hitchhiked all the way from Cairo and was on his way to Cape Town. He talked late into the night about being lost in the desert in Egypt, fending off lions in the wilds of Kenya, and running from hippos in Zambia. Learning of their plan to visit Victoria Falls, he raved about a cheap motel half a mile from the falls. He had also heard there was a daily bus going from Bulawayo.

Early the next morning, the cocky wayfarer was gone, along with the three ten-dollar bills left in Chad's trousers and Chad's state-of-the-art Nikon F2A camera, which he had bought in New York the week before they had left for South Africa. Peter's Kodak Instamatic X, with flip flash, would have to do. Both were relieved when they found their remaining fifty-eight Rhodesian dollars at the back of the locker stuffed in Peter's dirty socks.

Peter declared, "That's just great! Now we _have_ to hitchhike to Salisbury _and_ back to Bulawayo."

Chad quickly refused. "I am not hitchhiking in this or any other country. Never have, never will."

"Is that right? Well, that was a goddamn stupid thing to do, leaving money in your pants. I'm not going run out of money and get stuck penniless in a foreign country. Why in the world would—"

"Peter, shut the hell up for a change."

***

Chad sat with his legs crossed on the side of the road just outside the Bulawayo city limits. He refused to stick his thumb out and beg for a ride and insisted Peter do the honors. He was mortified when someone did stop. He swallowed his pride, smiled, and got in the back seat, thankful that his father would never have to know he had stooped to hitchhiking – and in a war-torn country halfway around the world, no less.

***

In Salisbury, they found a travel agent and inquired about trips to Victoria Falls. The sly vagabond's information was correct: The motel would cost only nine dollars for three nights, but the return bus from Bulawayo would cost a whopping eighteen. Peter cringed when he found out and argued with Chad about the expense. "We just can't afford that. We'll have to hitchhike up to the falls."

"You are crazy. Did you hear what he said? The bus goes with an armed escort – an ARMED escort – and you want to hitchhike. No way!"

Peter whined, "You're right. We shouldn't go at all. It's on the border. Too dangerous. Let's just skip it. We don't need to go."

Chad replied, "We're going, alright, but I am not hitchhiking. No matter what the hell it costs, we are going to those falls, Peter. Just go in and book the goddamn bus."

"I suppose we'll be okay if we eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches for the next several days. No, I don't know about this, going up to the border."

"It's fine. Give me the money. I'll buy the tickets." Chad went into the travel agency and paid the twenty-seven Rhodesian dollars. Peter waited on the crowded sidewalk and took several deep breaths in an attempt to curb a mixture of rage and anxiety surging in his belly.

***

Peter had battled for three hours, throwing his arms, legs, and torso back and forth across the confines of his bed. It was now well past two a.m. He had commanded his thoughts to stop, at least slow down, but his mind hummed on and on, taking him back to South Africa: to Cindy and berating himself for leading her on; to Chad and altercations that had become more frequent and more intense; to the townships and the encounters he had had with a different South Africa. He cursed his brain for not shutting down. He finally gave up, knowing sleep was not going relieve him. He threw on a pair of jeans, grabbed a pen and an aerogram, and went to the commons area to clear his conscience and soothe his soul.

Peter found Chad sitting in his boxer shorts working on his own aerogram. _No doubt_ , he thought, _to Sarah_. He decided Chad's presence in the commons was fate nudging him.

Chad glanced up as Peter came through the door. His shocked expression immediately switched to a frown of disgust. He shook his head slightly and then looked back down to his paper and asked, "Can't sleep?"

"Nope. Writing Sarah?"

"Yep. Gonna write Cindy?"

"Yeah."

Peter sat down and flattened the flimsy blue sheet of paper. He looked at Chad, took a slow breath, and held it. He told himself to just open his mouth and see what came out. "I... a... you know... I know I've been an ass lately."

"Hadn't noticed," Chad replied without looking up.

"Yeah, I have been an ass – an angry ass. I've been acting like a... a... I don't know."

Chad looked up. Showing no emotion, he said, "A pompous, self-righteous son of a bitch?"

"Has it been that bad? I didn't think about it quite like that, but okay. I'll agree with pompous and self-righteous, but son of a bitch? That's a bit harsh, don't you think? But anyway, I'm sorry."

"Why? Why have you been such a goddamn ass? You know who I am. I don't care if you don't like it, but don't treat me like crap. Have the decency to tell me what you think, and quit making me feel like you're so pristine and perfect and I'm so screwed up wrong."

Peter paused for a moment, searching for the right response, but nothing surfaced. He decided just to say what he was thinking. "But you're wrong, Chad."

"Damn it! There you go again, you righteous, pompous fart! That's all you are." Chad laughed, but it became scornful and angry.

"What?"

"Okay. What am I so wrong about? Tell me! Sarah? Her dad? Not wanting to go off to the townships with you? Preferring Vandy to your townships? How the flying crap am I so wrong?"

"You really don't get it, Chad. You are freakin' blind. You shouldn't just sit there and accept apartheid like it's ... like it's some great thing. People are dying, Chad! How can you just sit there and ignore it? And worse, you condone it – practice it even!"

"I resent that! That is not true. Garbage. Bullshit."

"It's not? Look how you let a Black man get out of your way when you walk down the sidewalk in Jo'berg, in Vandy. You give them that look, like 'You'd better stay in your place, Kaffir.' You defend the Whites like there's nothing wrong with them treating Black human beings as if they are animals. You're living in the White South Africa, pretending Black Africa doesn't exist. You've been sucked into it because it suits you. Maybe I am self-righteous and pompous, but... well I can't help it. It's like we see a different world, a different Africa."

Chad took three deep breaths, but his emotions continued to intensify, and his voice got louder as he spoke. "I'm not out to change the world like you are. Does that make you a better person? God! You don't condemn Simon, George, Sarah, or Cindy, and they're all living in the _White Africa_. They all accept the way things are, and you don't say anything to them. So what is your problem with me? Tell me, Peter, and don't just frigging say I should know better."

"But you should."

"Shut up! Flip! Maybe you don't get it. You know I love South Africa, and yeah, I like the way it is. By golly, I like the life I've had there. I like White South Africa. And dear Peter, I am ecstatic you love Black Africa. Should things change? Yes. Sure. Is apartheid disgusting? Absolutely, but right now, it is what it is. I'm sure it will change, but don't begrudge me enjoying the South Africa I know – the South Africa I love. Do us all a favor, Peter, and quit acting like you're the damn great White hope, some American boy that's going to save the whole freakin' world."

Peter held his tongue, though harsh comebacks swirled inside his head. He knew there was no point in arguing, so he offered a truce. "Okay. I'll work on it. You're right. You've got your deal, your reasons, and I've got mine. I shouldn't act like I have. Just tell me when I'm getting pompous."

"You're being pompous now."

"What? How?" Peter said, tempering his frustration.

"You don't get it, do you? You said that to shut me up. You don't mean it. You don't really _believe_ you shouldn't act that way. You think you're right and I'm a horrible, deluded, narrow-minded asshole."

Peter shook his head. He knew Chad was partly right and partly wrong. "No, Chad, you're wrong about that. I don't think you're a horrible ass, but I know I've been one. I know I shouldn't judge you. It's just that the townships and Roger's outreaches are important to me, and I don't even know why. I really don't. For some reason, I want it to be important to you too."

Chad laughed, a more sincere chuckle, "Give it up, Peter. Stop being a condescending, patronizing ass! God! I don't want you to give a flip about what's important to me, okay?"

Peter smiled and nodded. "You're right. I'll live my life, eh? Really, I don't want to keep pushing you away. I don't."

"Thanks. I know it's important to you. Maybe I should be more sensitive or whatever, but shit, Peter! Just accept me as I am, bru, and I'll try to do the same."

Peter had done what he could to soothe his soul and make amends, and now he was desperate to ease the tension. "So we're cool now, right? I think we should we give each other a hug – a long, sappy, heal-everything hug."

" _Ag sis_ , man! You _are_ getting too girly."

"So, what are you telling Sarah?"

"None of your business," Chad stated furtively. "And you? What are you writing to Cindy? You know she's planning on marrying you, right?"

"Riggght," Peter said with skewed lips and squinted eyes, not certain if Chad was being serious or not.

Chad looked intently at Peter. "She's never told you, has she? Sarah says Cindy has this dream, a recurring dream, that she would marry an American and move to the States. She's got plans for you, mate."

"You're not serious! That's not true. She can't possibly be—"

"Oh it's true all right. God's honor. Sarah thought she was an idiot when she rambled on and on about those dreams, but then you came along. How 'bout that? And she certainly looooves you, bru. You're her dream boat – literally."

"Blast! I gotta write her." Peter put his pen to the light blue paper and began to write...

Cindy,

_I have been missing you. It's pretty wild up here. Of course, you've been up here and know the crazy stuff that goes on, but things have been fine. We've had a great time with Simon's brother and his family_.

Well, I really need to let you know what is going on inside me, so here goes. I really have appreciated our friendship. It has been great. I'm thankful for it and don't know what I would have done without you. But I feel bad about something. I'm afraid maybe I let you think it could be more than a good – no, great – friendship. I don't know how to say what I need to – so I'll just say it as plain as I can and hope it makes sense and you understand things.

I love you lots, but it could never be marriage-type stuff. As great as our friendship is, it could never be more than that. I know I should have probably said this sooner and in person, but I needed to make sure you don't get the idea that ... well, you know, it could be anymore that what it is. It could never be anything more serious, Cindy. And maybe it's too serious now.

You'll probably be mad I'm putting this in a letter. I know it's something we should have talked about a long time ago. I'm sorry it's like this and that I'm so far away. I hope you don't hate me and that we can still be good friends.

I know you might feel you've been led on. Please believe me when I say I never meant to. I will always cherish our times together and the friendship we have. Your friendship means so much to me, and I hope that never changes.

We'll hitchhike back to Bulawayo and then go up to Victoria Falls for a few days and will hopefully be back in South Africa in another week or so. I do want to see you. But if don't, I will understand.

Much love,

Pete

Chad's paper was a light shade of yellow, and he pressed the blue ink pen to it as he wrote...

Sarah, my dear, my love,

I am sorry for that last time we were together. I didn't want to leave things as we did. Let me say clearly that I appreciate your dad. I care about him and know he is a good man, a good father. I know how much he loves you and Lisa. I do hate his drinking. I hate what it does to him and to you and your mom. I know you hate that too. Sarah, I admire your love for him. I admire that you and your mom do not give up on him. For what it's worth, I will say it again – I am truly sorry for what happened at Kruger that last night. There is no excuse for what happened, I know. I am sorry, my love.

I do, I do, I do love you – more than anything. I am not well polished with romantic prose, so I will keep it simple. Sarah, you are who I want, who I need, who I love.

I am afraid you are pushing me away for the wrong reasons. I may be wrong, but I feel you're pushing me away because you're afraid of love. I do not believe this stuff about you not loving me enough. I think you are afraid you love me too much. Hell, I just don't want to lose you, no matter the reason.

I hope that I will be back in a week, and I will keep pursuing you until you convince me that I am not the one who can make you happy for the rest of your life!

I love you terribly.

I miss you terribly.

You're my one and only,

Chad

CHAPTER 24

The Smoke That Thunders

They waited for the nonstop Bulawayo-Victoria Falls bus. A stark white bus, with no markings announcing its destination, pulled up to the bus stop.

"That's it. Hurry up," Peter said.

Chad caught Peter's arm. "No, that's a delivery van of some sort. That's not a bus."

They waited for a proper bus to pull up.

Peter pointed and said, "You're wrong. Look."

People who looked like tourists were boarding the white bus.

Peter and Chad boarded last. Long benches lined both sides of the bus, and at the back of the vehicle were two rows of seats. Peter and Chad took their seats on the bench seat behind the driver.

They shared the five-and-a-half-hour, 420-kilometer journey with eight other individuals. On the back row, a man in a dark pinstriped suit had already busied himself reading a morning paper. He had carefully placed his briefcase on the seat, obviously hoping no one would disturb his solitude. In front of them sat a middle aged German couple, both with wire-rimmed glasses. They wore polite smiles that refused to wane. Three bearded and emaciated Americans sat on the passenger side bench-seat. They talked incessantly and loudly, recounting exaggerated tales of hitchhiking up from Botswana. A young South African English-speaking couple with shiny new rings nestled together on the bench seat where Chad and Peter had settled.

The bus left Bulawayo at exactly one-thirty p.m., traveled for fifteen minutes, and then pulled off the highway into a lay-by. There, it waited.

The businessman looked at his watch for a third time and muttered, "Damn it all!"

The others looked at him, and Chad asked if he knew what was going on.

"We're waiting for the bloody escort. They're late. They're always late when I've got a meeting to make."

Chad nodded and offered an understanding look, though he was thinking, _What an arrogant wannabe!_

The German gentleman turned his head back and asked, "Escort? What kind of escort?"

"Army. It's dangerous to the north. Terrorists are moving about those areas. They would love to hit a soft target like a bus full of tourists. They would relish such a strike." He looked around at his fellow travelers as he said it, seemingly enjoying seeing eyes fill with fear. When he noticed the escort finally arriving, he said, "There they are. About bloody time."

Two white pickup trucks arrived; one took its position in front of the bus, and the other pulled behind. Two Black soldiers manned each machinegun-laden truck.

With her impeccable smile fading, the German woman said, "Is this safe? Are you sure it is safe?"

"Of course it is. You need not worry, dear," her husband said, maintaining his optimistic grin. He then he put his arm around her shoulder and began consoling his worried spouse in German.

The businessman leaned forward and said, "Oh, we're safe now. Nothing to worry about. There is enough firepower in those guns to wipe out a platoon. The terrs see those beauties and cry like soiled babies as they scatter back into the bush." With that, he returned to reading his newspaper.

"Fifty miles from Victoria Falls. That's what the paper said yesterday. Attacks on two farms fifty miles from there. And an attack near Lupane, a church or something, a few days ago," said the young South African man. His bride quickly silenced him with a stern look.

The pickup truck to the rear honked its horn, and the undersized bus pulled back onto the highway flanked by its assigned guardians, who stood with machineguns in hand dutifully searching for any movement in the bushveld that lined the highway.

One of the bearded Americans nonchalantly blurted out, "You know any bullets would go clean through this tin can! They could shoot us all in the backs before we knew what hit us."

His friend promptly agreed with him. "Yeah, that'd be the way to go. That's what I'd want – to never know what hit me."

The third friend quickly retorted, "What fun would that be?"

The other laughed and said, "With our luck, it'd hit you square in the back and sever your spinal cord, and we'd have to wheel you around for the rest of our trip."

The remaining travelers looked at the three brash Americans with accusing looks, which did nothing to deter them from discussing what it might be like to get a bullet in one's spine.

Peter and Chad looked at each other with expressions conveying their silent apprehension. Then Chad loudly blurted out, "A mile long. The falls are a mile long. That's incredible. Has anyone ever been there before?"

The conversation changed as the group their shared anticipation of experiencing one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. None had been there before except the loud-mouthed businessman, who was pleased to share his impression of the falls, informing them about the best places to stay and eat and ways to avoid swindlers and conmen. "Don't worry about any of those bogus guided tours. Venture out and explore it on your own. That's the only way to experience the falls."

The bushveld became denser the further north they went. Trees lining the highway thickened, and the underbrush became increasingly lush, green, and thick, providing ample coverage for determined terrorists. However, no one talked further about attacks, about terrorists, or about bullets in the spine. Instead, they focused on the wonders of Victoria Falls and their upcoming adventures. They arrived safely at five-fifteen p.m.

***

The Livingston Motel, located half a mile from the Falls, was within easy walking distance. Densely wooded landscape, accentuated by lush underbrush and wild flowers, surrounded the motel. The accommodation itself proved to be comfortable despite its simplicity: there were two single beds, a sink, a small fridge in the corner, bare walls, and a concrete floor. Toilets and showers were fifty paces across a modest car park. Just outside the door, a small patio area with two wooden rockers and a built-in barbeque added some ambiance. Sitting at just the right angle in the chairs

Chad and Peter plopped down in the rocking chairs. Moving the chairs to just the right angle afforded a view of the permanent cloud of mist that marks the falls. As well, they could hear the roar of the cascading water, providing faint and unending background noise. From half a mile away they could see and hear why the natives called it _Mosi-oa-Tunya_ , 'The Smoke that Thunders.'

Chad read from a brochure left in their motel room. "'The majesty of this great wonder evokes awe and demands reverence. The magnitude of Victoria Falls power arouses a quiet fear – a fear of the absolute authority that nature yields.'" Chad jumped and said, "Can't wait. Let's go." They headed off to explore the area.

Within 100 meters of the Falls, the vegetation thickens. A little farther and one is engulfed by a jungle, which is fueled by the never-ending spray of the falls. At twenty meters, it morphs into a virtual rainforest overwhelmed with a rich variety of trees, brush, vines, and fauna. The area surrounding Victoria Falls nurtures several hundred types of trees and plants rarely seen in other parts of Africa. All who venture close enough to the falls enjoy a drenching by the eternal upward rain produced by a thousand tons of water plunging over the falls every second.

Hurrying before dark, Chad and Peter made their way down a well-used path and came to the northern end of the Falls. Standing a meter from the edge, they gazed over the rim. They stood speechless for several minutes before Peter whispered, "This is more amazing than I could have imagined. Too much for words. Just ... just amazing."

"An adrenaline rush as good as any. As good as sex," Chad whispered back.

They returned to their motel and enjoyed peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Then, with hot tea in hand, they sat in the rocking chairs and listened to the thundering mist as they reflected on the splendor of one of Africa's greatest gifts.
CHAPTER 25

Kebo

The following morning, they set off to explore deeper and further. They trekked around the perimeter of the Falls, heading south and east, working their way toward the railroad bridge that crosses the Zambezi River into Zambia.

With the vegetation closing in with each step, Peter blurted out a question he had been mulling over, "What do you think we're more likely to run into up here, a terrorist or a wild animal? A terr or a crocodile? Or worse, a black mamba?"

"More likely a deadly animal. That is scary for sure. There're no terrorists around here. They would have told us if there were, but I don't want to think about either."

They followed the rugged rim of the Falls, often walking a meter or less from its edge. They stopped and took pictures of the Zambian bridge, which was about a kilometer away. They trudged through another drenching from the never-ending spray, came to a clearing, and took more photos, capturing a train crossing over the bridge.

Time seemed to stop as they sat and watched the rushing water plunging down the 100-meter gorge, both were mesmerized by the majesty and power before their eyes.

Peter broke their quiet meditation. "Good God! It's well past noon. No wonder my stomach's complaining. Let's get back and get some lunch. And I don't want to get drenched again. We should walk further in from the Falls. That path over there should be a quicker way back to the motel."

"Fine," Chad said.

They ventured down a path less traveled; it disappeared quickly as the fauna, trees, and undergrowth thickened.

Peter's voice became louder with each sentence. "I don't know about this. Should we turn back? Why the hell didn't we bring some lunch anyway? How many times, huh? How many times did I say, 'We should take something to eat'? But no... You said, 'Let's get going. We'll just come back for lunch.' How many—"

"God! It's too late now. Shut up about it. It's fine. Just keep going. I think there's a clearing ahead. This was your idea, remember."

The jungle began to smother them. Complaints grew more heated and more anxious. Peter was about to declare they should turn around when they saw two young baboons. The inquisitive primates stared at them with large, questioning eyes. Peter slowly pulled out his Kodak and handed it to Chad. He whispered, "We've gotta get this."

Peter edged nearer, holding out his hand. Both tiny baboons reached out to touch his fingers. As they did, Chad took the picture and then handed the camera to Peter as he eased away. Chad took two steps toward the young baboons. At that moment, out of the thick vegetation, a bloodcurdlingly roar pierced their eardrums, and a large baboon swooped toward Peter and slapped him on the head. Another roar exploded from the depths of the patriarch's lungs as he raised both arms and prepared to strike again. At the same moment, two other adult baboons appeared bearing large, sharp, angry teeth, declaring an attack was imminent.

Chad darted toward a stunned Peter, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him away from the next blow. The two humans backed slowly away from the irate beasts. At once, both turned and darted toward the rough brush, which fought against them with its own anger; every stride produced tears, scratches, and cuts. After ten minutes (which seemed like sixty), they stopped. The roars had faded; the baboons had made their point and did not bother to elaborate further.

Peter bent over and grabbed his knees. Chad clasped his hands on his head. Both were panting, and their heart rates would not slow down. After several minutes, when their panic had subsided, both laughed with loud, husky laughter that released tension and brought their adrenaline back down to a tolerable level.

After calm returned, Peter looked around. He was unable to see more than two meters in any direction. "My God! Which way back?"

"I have no idea." Chad turned 360 degrees as he rubbed his temples. He finally pointed and said, "We came out that way. No, wait ... I don't know. I have no idea which way we came from. Which way is which? Hell's bells!"

Peter's words came out quickly. "God! What do we do? I can't even see the sun. Where's west? I can hear the water, but holy crap! Which way is it?"

"I think it's this way. Come on. Let's just go this way for a while. We should be able to tell if we're getting closer."

"What if you're wrong?"

"You got a better idea?"

Peter followed behind Chad through the thick brush. Chad listened, hoping the thunder of the Falls would become more distinct, but it did not. Fifteen minutes later, he realized the Falls' eternal roar sounded even fainter.

Peter shouted out, "Good God! We are truly and utterly lost!"

Chad ignored the outcry and continued moving through the jungle. After another ten minutes of fighting the brush in an unknown direction, Chad stopped. "Wait! You hear that? Listen! Voices! Over there. Thank God!"

Before Chad could call out, two men appeared from the bush, pointing AK 47s at their heads. One of them, with a thick graying beard, pointed to his younger companion and barked a succinct order in Ndebele. He waved the barrel of his fierce rifle, indicating they were to follow the young man, who appeared to be no more than sixteen. The young boy looked quickly at the two Americans; his eyes were hollow, emotionless. He looked forward and began swinging a machete wildly. They followed with an AK 47 pointed at their backs.

They worked their way through the brush for twenty minutes before joining a group of six more freedom fighters in a small clearing. They sat in a circle on tree limbs, drinking, laughing, and talking in their native tongue. Three appeared to be young boys, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. All but one clutched well-used AK-47 rifles.

The one without a rifle toyed with a bloodstained machete. The man wore jeans and a green t-shirt that looked new. A green and yellow bandana held down a fair-sized afro. As Peter and Chad approached, he looked up, removed a fat cigar from the side of his mouth, set it by his side and proudly said, "Well, well! Look what Sandiswe has found. What are your names?"

"Chad, and this is—"

The man interrupted and spoke slowly, deliberately. "Chad, shut your mouth. Your friend shall speak for himself."

"Peter. I'm Peter. We... we just wandered off. We just need some direction to get back to ..." Peter's words faded as the man laughed. This triggered laughter from his companions.

With an eerie grin, the man proclaimed, "Two lost Americans. What shall we do with two lost American boys?" He pulled a pistol out of its holster and pointed it back and forth, first at Chad, then at Peter. "You should not be here. You should die." He stood up; with a slight limp he walked toward them, still pointing his weapon at one and then the other. "But I do not feel like killing two lost American boys today."

He turned and retreated to his perch. With a one-sided grin and eyes offering a faint twinkle, he said, "Sandiswe, move. We must show good hospitality to our surprise guests. Peter, Chad, sit there. My name is Kebolo Matemela. You may call me Kebo. Sandiswe, please get the boys some of our _muchaiwa_ ... some beer for you lads."

The two sat down, avoiding eye contact and trying to remain emotionless. They held their thighs to hide their trembling hands. Chad silently pleaded to a God he had been happy to keep at a distance, trying to believe that now He could and would answer their cries to be spared.

When Sandiswe returned with two tin mugs, Kebo grinned and said, "There you go. _Muchaiwa_ , a good strong, homemade African beer for you. It is warm, but I am sure you will not mind."

Chad debated with himself as to whether he should offer a polite "No thanks" or just nod, smile, and take it. He felt a bored assassin was toying with him – a psychopath enjoying a diversion from the monotony of waiting the next assignment to murder. "Thank you. That's fine. Thank you." Chad decided he should play along. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _he will have his fun, and not change his mind about not wanting to kill Americans today._

Peter took his beer with a nod and a very artificial smile.

"So tell me why you two boys are here in Rhodesia. Is this your dream holiday? The adventure of a lifetime, yes? See our wonderful Rhodesia! Our wonderful Victoria Falls!" Kebo's accent was refined, almost like that of an Englishman.

They told him the tale of how they had come to South Africa and ended up in Rhodesia. Chad embellished the account of being kicked out of South Africa, emphasizing how impertinent and paranoid the South African government was. Kebo laughed, and his comrades joined in. The laughter was an uncomfortable sort, saturated with disdain and arrogance – a laughter that declared all others were fools.

Quickly, Kebo's jovial moment ceased. He took a slow, calculated breath, and with restrained wrath said, "South Africa – it _is_ a great land. One day soon, it will be free from its oppressors. But first, Rhodesia. Then... yes, then South Africa. The war we rage here is even now extending to our neighbors. The impertinent South African imperialists are trembling in their carefully ironed khaki shorts. They will indeed do all they can to put out the fire that is sweeping across their land." He threw his right fist up and shook it as he continued with a passionate declaration. "It will become a raging wildfire that will burn out of control, burn until the stench of apartheid and White rule linger only as a reminder of the arrogance of the colonists who thought they could have our land. That oppressive regime is wringing its bloodstained hands even now, knowing the inevitable will happen. They will fall. No matter how much bloodshed it takes, I tell you that they will fall! You can tell your White South African friends that their day is coming. For now, our concern is with my country, my Zimbabwe. Today we fight here, but tomorrow, the blood we let will be theirs – the oppressors in your South Africa."

Kebo stopped and nodded his head. His grin grew to a wide smile. He slapped his knee and said, "So what do they tell you about our war here? What do your South African friends, your Rhodesian friends say?" Kebo looked intently at the Americans with eyes demanding an answer.

Chad and Peter exchanged a furtive glance. _A trick question_ , Chad thought. He did not want to respond.

The terrorist shook his head. "You do not want to tell me? Then I shall tell you. Your South African friends are scared. The writing is on the stained walls of their bogus government offices. The Rhodesians? They now live in fear for their livelihood, for their lives. Yes, they know our time is coming ever so quickly. They know we will rule. Hundreds of scared White families are leaving this country every week. Oh, they know!" Kebo paused and looked at Peter, then Chad. A wide smile grew as he pondered his own proclamation. Then he asked, "What else do they say? Tell me!" His penetrating dark eyes flickered. "They say we are barbarians, murderers, evil, even inhuman. Is that not true?" He waited for an answer.

Peter finally spoke up, his voice so weak it trembled. "They do feel that. They do say that. Are you evil? How can it not be evil to kill innocent people, to torture and terrify your own people just because they don't agree with you? It's hard to argue that is not evil. It can't be..." Peter stopped. His lips began to quiver. He glanced at Chad with an apologetic look. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

Chad searched for words that would distract the murderer from Peter's unfiltered rant. He opened his mouth to speak, but before words came out, Kebo burst into laughter – cruel, cynical laughter.

Kebo looked at Peter through self-righteous, arrogant eyes. "My dear Peter. We are at war. Unfortunate things are going to happen in war, and I do not apologize for that. War is what it is. It has not been our choice to wage this war. Understand, my young friend, that this is not our doing. It is the Whites, the oppressors. They came and they conquered a world that was not theirs. They declared we were inferior and convinced us our lives counted for nothing." He grabbed a rifle and held it high. "By the gun they oppressed us, humiliated us. They hoped to destroy us. Now, by the gun, we must break the yoke they have put us under. The White man must learn that he is only human and are not superior. I do not apologize for using the gun to retake what the gun took from us."

Kebo stood up and walked past his fellow soldiers, nodding at each one. He then stood behind Peter and Chad and put his hands on their shoulders. "You conquered. You oppressed. Too long we let you, but no longer." He squeezed each shoulder tightly. "We will take what is our God-given right. We will fight with all our might against White ideology that dares to use our Blackness as a license to treat us as subservient beings. If it must be by force, then so be it."

"But you attack your own... your own people." Peter felt Kebo's grip relax.

"What we do is to call all Blacks of southern Africa to believe in themselves, to dream for themselves, and to take what is theirs by right of birth in this continent. We call them to work with us. We show them how important this fight is. If you want to call that evil, I do not care. I call your White colonialists evil. I call your racist regimes evil. I will call forced rule by such oppressors, evil. Do not talk about the innocent. None are innocent if they perpetuate racist ideals, racist rule. They are not innocent if they perpetuate a society that insists on robbing us of our basic human dignity. Black or White, they are not innocent."

Chad turned around and looked Kebo in the eyes for the first time. "There are other ways than killing and torturing people."

"No other way has worked, my naïve American friend. No other way has worked."

Chad looked away but said, "I... I don't understand how anyone can kill another human being."

"You have never been oppressed, stripped of freedom, dignity, and worth. Never have your ancestors been herded into ships to become slaves, treated worse than the White man would dare treat the lowest animal. Killing is what we do because we have no choice. We kill because our freedom, our dignity, demands it." He looked at Sandiswe and shook his empty tin mug; his soldier went to get more beer. "When we kill, we remind ourselves of that, and then we go home and think no more of it. You Americans were no different. You killed your oppressors; you rebelled against your king. You had your Revolutionary War, and now we are waging our own."

Sandiswe returned and replenished their mugs. "Enough of such talk. Tell me more about your American life. Someday I would very much like to go to your America."

With the second round of _muchaiwa_ downed and questions about America answered, Kebo stood up and stated, "You are to leave now. Others are coming, and they will not be so merciful." He ordered Sandiswe to take them to a path that would lead back to the Falls, telling him to take good care of his two American friends. Chad shuddered, fearing it was a veiled instruction to take care of them in a killer's way.

Kebo shook their hands as they got up to leave. Before releasing Peter's hand, he leaned close to his ear and whispered, "If you want to live, if you do not want others around you to die... do not speak a word of what you saw here today."

Kebo would let them live. This terrorist would let them go back and share his Marxist philosophy and warnings to his White enemies – but not that day, not the next day, and not until they were far away from this place.
CHAPTER 26

Attack

They collapsed on their beds simultaneously. Chad folded his arms and closed his eyes.

Peter, with hands clasped behind his head, stared at the white ceiling, hardly blinking. "What should we do?" Peter asked, breaking the silence.

Chad snapped, "What the hell do you mean? We do nothing. The bastard made it clear. We have no option. We can't say a word."

Peter stammered, "But we should... should let somebody know, shouldn't we? The police? People could die, Chad. People may die. I... I couldn't live with that."

Chad shook his head quickly. "If we tell, we die, and others will die. I believe him. It would be pure stupidity to tell anyone, to breathe a word of it. There is no point. If we tell, people may die. If we do not tell, people may die. There's no point, is there? What we do is say nothing."

"It just... you know, it doesn't feel right to hide what we know, to not tell the police, the army, somebody." Peter sat up. "I'll tell the receptionist. He can deal with it."

"God, Peter! Do you hear yourself? Do you even know what you're saying? You are not thinking straight. You can't trust anyone you tell. Any one of them could be a terrorist working with them – hell, even the police, the army. No way are we saying a word. I don't want to die in this place."

Peter nodded and lay back down. He whined, "Maybe we should leave tomorrow, get tomorrow's bus, and get the hell out of here."

"No. I think we're safer here. Kebo knows where we are. I trust him enough not to come here. He said he wouldn't. He gave his word."

Peter got up from the bed and went to the lone window. He put his hands on the windowsill and stared out. In a whisper, he asked, "His word? You honestly trust a crazed murderer?"

Chad sat up and spoke in a relaxed manner, "The guy said he wouldn't kill us, and he didn't. He could have done it easily, but he let us go. We stay here, chill out tomorrow, and leave the next day as planned. We've already paid for the next night. I tell you what, we will splurge tonight. We can get some T-bone steaks, the best steaks in the world, grill 'em up, and put those spuds on the grill too. It'll be _lekker,_ man."

Peter turned around and said, "Hey, you know what I'd die for right now? Tea. Seriously, some ice cold goddamn tea. I am so sick of hot tea. I'd die for some old-fashioned American iced tea. That corner shop might have some ice."

Chad laughed. "Yeah. You boil water for tea. I'll go to the shop, get the meat, and find a bag of ice, which is probably impossible, you know. And I'll get two candy bars ... no four. I think we deserve something after that drama. Never mind your damn budget. We're going to celebrate being alive to spend it."

***

Peter poured lighter fluid and lit the pile of charcoal. He watched the flames burst into a large, round, angry balloon, then draw back and begin their unpredictable dance across the briquettes. He fixed his eyes on the fire dancing around the lumps of coal. He waited and watched for the mound of black squares to release their pent-up energy. With a dead stare, he waited until the dancing yellow flames died down, leaving the coals with an angry glow. He placed two large potatoes, wrapped in foil, onto the embers. Heat singed the hair on his knuckles, and that is when he felt _it_.

A wave, a devastating tsunami, engulfed the whole of his soul and body. His heart pounded, causing his chest to tighten; he knew it was going to burst. He gasped, but he couldn't get enough air in his lungs. _My God! I can't breathe_! His hands started trembling despite his determination to keep them still. His entire body screamed, _You're going to die!_ He went and lay on the bed, clutching each side of the mattress.

A second wave began to threaten. It became a tidal wave of unfathomable and foreboding dread. His brain now declared, convincingly, that he _would_ surely die. He fought against his brain's call to surrender. He denied the reality of what was so real. _I know what this is. It will pass. This is ridiculous, Peter! Just relax!_

Another wave of sensations hit, and Peter needed to scream. He was certain death would be a better alternative. The tremors gave way to shaking. _Why now?_ He stared determinedly at the ceiling. _Relax, breathe... relax. Breathe... slower... breathe. I am not dying... I know what this is. Breathe. Let it pass._ Sweat poured from his neck and chest. The pain in his heart intensified. _Damn! I can't stand this. I need to go to the hospital. My God! There's no hospital around here! No! Come on... relax, relax. Breathe. It will pass. Chad will be back soon. Damn it._

He knew an hour had passed. His watch lied. _It can't have been only ten minutes._ _No, it can't be! It's been longer... God! Breathe. God! I don't want Chad to see this. Relax..._

Three more minutes, and the waves became less overwhelming, the sensations less sadistic. He kept breathing, slow and deep. Two more minutes, and the waves became bearable. Finally, only the remnants of the attack lingered. He kept breathing slowly and deeply, demanding that his body and brain continue to relax.

Then it was over. He did not die.

He sat up on the bed and tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He nearly collapsed. He lay back down, angry and disgusted. _I am pathetic. A wondrous piece of crap._ He had prayed so hard that he had outgrown these merciless invasions on his body, mind, and soul. It'd been many months since his last attack, but this one was unnerving, the worst he had ever endured. It eroded his fragile confidence and left him with an unshakeable fear that it could, would, happen again – anywhere, anytime. He heard the door open and jumped off the bed.

"Jesus! Are you okay? You look god-awful."

"I'm fine, fine. Just tired. That was pretty traumatic stuff today, you know. I'm just starting to feel a bit worn out, but I'm good. Let's get the T-bones on." He feigned resilience and went through the motions. Eventually, after a sixteen-ounce T-bone and a gallon of fresh iced tea, he felt nearly as strong as he had pretended to be.

***

That night, the two Americans lay in their beds, too afraid to speak. They knew that talking about the events of the day might ignite the emotions both were desperately trying to push down. Verbalizing the disturbing experience would only intensify the fear, the terror, and the helplessness of what could have been a fatal encounter. They tossed and turned until three a.m.

Chad got up to get a glass of water and started talking about Sarah – the one woman he helplessly and hopelessly loved, the one he was desperately trying to convince to love him. Peter then talked about Cindy – the woman he had determined not to love and was trying, ever so subtly, to prove to her that she did not love him as much as she thought. Chad could not believe what Peter had written as he talked about the letter that he had sent a few days before. Peter remained amazed that Chad had deluded himself, still believing he could save a dysfunctional family without destroying himself in the process.

***

At sunrise, Peter, with uncharacteristic determination, blurted out, "We ought to leave today. I want to leave this morning."

"No. We decided we would stay until tomorrow. The room is already paid for, and I'm not going to waste it."

Peter approach Chad and leaned toward his face. "I think we should get out of here. Knowing terrorists are around... around here, it's... it's ridiculous to stay. It's just too nerve wracking to hang around."

Chad leaned closer to Peter's face. "Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Kebo told us we'd be safe."

Peter stepped back and went to butter his toast. "That's nonsense. Utter nonsense. The further away we are, the better ... and the sooner the better."

They ate their toast and drank stale coffee, arguing with escalating intensity. Out of sheer frustration, Chad eventually said, "Flip a coin. Let it decide. Here, toss it... Heads we stay, tails we go."

Peter tossed the coin, and they watched it land on the floor and roll under the bed. Both knelt down and looked at the coin.

"Tails," Peter said, "The bus leaves at seven thirty. Get packed." He threw Chad his rucksack

CHAPTER 27

Ambush

The undersized bus idled impatiently as the two Americans arrived at the bus stop. They were the last ones to board. All eyes glanced their way as they showed the driver their tickets. It was seven twenty-nine a.m.

Peter noticed a few of the passengers squirm as they came through the door. He was sure they were thinking that both he and Chad looked like exhausted, weather-beaten zombies.

Chad glanced at their fellow passengers, nodded politely – and smiled. Peter knew it was a lifeless smile he offered. _A forced and meaningless gesture,_ Peter thought _. Pretending, he's always pretending._ He watched Chad squeeze onto the bench behind the driver's side. Peter sat on the bench seat opposite. He clasped his hands and stared at his entwined fingers. He prayed that no one would neither talk to him nor notice him.

Their fellow passengers, 14 of them, conversed among themselves, chatting about the thrill of Victoria Falls. The polite older German couple and the obnoxious honeymooners were the only familiar faces. Their new companions included a family of five that took up the two rows in the back of the bus. Their three blonde teenage girls were whispering loudly in Afrikaans, giggling after every sentence. The young girls ignored repeated demands by their parents to settle down. Two young couples sat next to Chad, and each had striking blond hair; they conversed in Swedish or Danish, though Peter wasn't sure which. All four had backpacks stowed under their feet and looked like they had hiked down from the Swiss Alps.

Peter made it obvious he was not going to partake in any friendly exchanges. When asked by a German couple what he thought about the Falls, he shrugged and with no animation, stated, "Amazing." Surprisingly, Chad responded in a similar fashion. Peter turned to the right and stared resolutely out the front windshield. Chad let out an exaggerated yawn as he put his head back against the window.

A few passengers expressed alarm when two machinegun-laden pickup trucks took their places in the front and rear of the bus. The German man, looking over his spectacles, smiled and assured his companions, "Only a precautionary measure. There has never been an attack on the motorway. The terrorists would never risk such a thing. Not to worry." The bus began its four-and-half-hour journey to Bulawayo.

An hour passed. Peter assumed Chad was asleep, but he couldn't be sure. _Sleep. God for some sleep. I'd sleep forever, never wake up. God give me some rest, why don't ya?_ He sat with an open book in his hands, though his eyes never looked down; his gaze remained fixed on passing scenery he never saw. Eventually, all the friendly conversations died down, except for the drone of chattering teenagers at the rear of the vehicle. _Quiet at last._ _Finally some peace._ Peter closed his eyes and hoped to God he might sleep; but the emotions and images of the previous day would not fade.

An explosion rocked the bus, jarring Peter nearly out of his seat. Seconds later, rapid gunfire came from the bushveld to the left and drowned out panicked screams. Machine guns on the guardian trucks unleashed a barrage of bullets producing an angry cacophony that vibrated the bus. Peter was sure his eardrums would burst. Along with all the others, he dove to the floor. He covered his ears trying to muffle the terror that wouldn't stop.

Three long seconds later – another explosion. It was followed by a storm of gunfire from the other side of the road. Machine guns fell silent; Peter could hear the pickup trucks' breaks screeching as the veered out of control. He braced himself, knowing what was coming – the bus veered left to miss the lead truck. Screams intensified.

Peter closed his eyes and held his breathe as shattered glass rained down on his head and neck. The screech of countless bullets ripping surgical holes through the defenseless metal pierced his ears. The bus careened back to the left, then to the right; it came to a jarring halt tossing Peter and the others around like fruit thrown into a barrel. Then, the gunfire ceased.

Peter quickly looked around. He saw two men and one of the children bleeding profusely. One, a Swede, clutched his left arm; the other man was the German, bleeding heavily from his right thigh. The third, the child, lay moaning as her mother cradled her and attempted to slow the flow of blood from her left shoulder and arm.

Peter desperately looked for Chad – he seemed to have vanished. Someone pointed to the front of the bus. His friend's body lay near the driver's seat – his stomach tightened. Blood spewed profusely from Chad's head, or neck, or heart; Peter couldn't tell.

Peter's brain ceased to process – motions and words void of thought. He placed the palm of his hand firmly on the side of Chad's neck; this slowed the flow of blood somewhat, but within a few seconds, he felt his friend's blood soaking through his own shirt and jeans. He shouted out, "Be quiet! Be quiet!"

The screams stopped. Everyone remained on the bus floor, listening for any movement from outside the bus. All was quiet. Someone said, "That was close."

Peter motioned to him to shut up.

Peter heard tugging at the door. A few passengers began to moan and Peter again motioned for silence. The tugging continued until the creak of strained hinges sent a bolt of fear straight through Peter's gut and spine. He dare not look – his eye remained fixed on his friend as he watched Chad's lifeblood ooze through his fingers. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw the barrel of an AK 47, it moved slowly back and forth, up and down. Peter knew the terrorist was savoring the impending mayhem. The man was going to enjoy each execution, the death of each defenseless, innocent human being.

When he saw the barrel of the rifle pointed towards his head, Peter's emotions disappeared, he felt nothing. _I'll look the bastard in the eyes. I'll curse him to his face. I'll damn him to a million hells. Some say pray for them. Pray for them? Goddamn him forever._ Peter looked up. He looked the killer straight in the eyes. Peter's heart stopped.

The demon lowered his weapon, winked at Peter and said, "Dear Peter, we meet again." He then looked at Chad. With a subtle but unnerving grin, he took a bandana from his back pocket and tossed it to Peter. "Take care my American friend, take care. I pray it is not too late for your friend." Kebo turned and walked out of the bus as he barked orders to his freedom fighters.

Using the terrorist's offering, Peter did all he could to slow the fountain of blood. He could feel the life of his friend slipping away. Others began to assist the wounded. All wondered why they'd been spared; some declared that it was a miracle.

At the first hail of bullets, the driver of their bus had radioed in the attack. It felt like an eternity to Peter before soldiers, police, and ambulances arrived.

Peter watched an army helicopter take off as it airlifted the wounded to a hospital in Salisbury. He prayed his friend would be all right – he feared his prayers were already too late. He boarded a bus with the other survivors and was taken to an army outpost in Lupane. There officials probed them for minute and seemingly inconsequential details of the event.

As Peter waited while others were being interrogated, he vacillated between warring factions in his brain: _Tell them everything I know or don't tell them anything?_ Common sense told him it was best not to admit to the authorities that he had met the leader of the band of terrorists involved in the attack. He did not want to confess he had remained silent and hidden the fact he knew terrorists were in the area. On the other hand, his moral sensibility insisted he should reveal absolutely everything he did know.

Peter took his turn in the small, brightly lit office. A Rhodesian flag hung behind the desk; pictures of the country's most beautiful and exotic scenes covered one wall, while photographs of its proud people, both Black and White, covered another. Peter relaxed as he studied the photos depicting the rich diversity of this African nation. He took in several deep breaths and determined he would tell everything he knew.

Two officials entered, one Black and the other White. Both gave reassuring nods, coupled with concerned eyes and pressed lips. It reminded Peter of the expressions used at funerals to acknowledge the gravity of the situation while expressing a determined hope that life will go on. They offered him a cup of tea, which Peter declined.

Both inquirers were polite, understanding, and patient. Peter sensed they understood the horror he had just been through. _Of course, they would,_ Peter realized. _These individuals are all too familiar with the inhumanity of terror._ They listened to Peter's account with fascination as he described each man in Kebo's band and related every word that he could remember being spoken.

They knew Kebolo Matemela well. His reputation made him infamous among the Rhodesian Light Infantry, which had been tracking him for five years. Selous Scouts (a group of former terrorists who had joined the Rhodesian army and taken on the role of infiltrating guerrilla groups), had infiltrated his group on two occasions. Both times, the Scouts were brutally disemboweled and left as examples. The officers said they had known Kebo was in the area.

Peter learned more about the eerie freedom fighter. In the mid-sixties, he left Zambia to study at King's College in London. Not long after he began his studies, a few student affiliates of the Communist Party of Great Britain latched on to him. He quickly immersed himself in the teachings of Marx, Lenin, and Mao Zedong. He proved to be a formidable leader in the university's student communists group, writing dozens of articles for _The Zimbabwe Review_ , a leftist paper in London. He began taking a lead in their meetings and rallies. In 1969, he received an invitation from a leader in the Zimbabwe African People's Party (ZAPU) to "study _"_ in the USSR. There, he joined an elite group of six other handpicked individuals. In a small, nondescript flat in the Chririmuski District of Moscow, he received paramilitary training, learning how to use sophisticated weapons and how to manufacture and use explosives. He mastered the tactics of executing ambushes against personnel and vehicles, and he learned the art of camouflage and spoor-covering. He also studied the tried and proven methods of indoctrination: how to endear the communist philosophy to the common people and challenge their young people to join the revolution. He became a highly trained, highly educated terrorist. He returned to Zambia to recruit and train terrorists and then began intrusions into Rhodesia to execute acts of terror and recruit young freedom fighters.

The officers were impressed with Peter's encounter with this infamous leader. Once they were satisfied that there was no more information to be gleaned, they thanked him and led him to the door. As he left, they said they would arrange for a change of clothes, stating that his bloodstained garments would have to be burned. Peter did not want to leave that office; they knew, they understood, and they cared.

It took three hours of questioning to interview each of the eleven survivors. The group of strained and traumatized travelers became increasingly angry, anxious, and scared during the process. They begged, then demanded to be taken to the hospital in Salisbury. They had to know what was going on with their family members and their friends. Every request for information and action was met with the same rote response: "We're doing all we can. Please be patient. It will not be much longer. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Peter chose to let others fight that battle. He sat alone, not wanting to be bothered. He knew his friend was dead. He needed solitude to prepare himself for the inevitable declaration. Peter eventually gathered enough composure to make a phone call. With a calm demeanor that surprised even him, he informed Richard of the event and of the unknown status of Chad. Peter did not tell Richard he was certain Chad could not have survived, but he prepared him for the worst. Richard said he would call Simon.
CHAPTER 28

Hospital Reunion

The 430-kilometer (270-mile) journey took just under four hours. When Peter got off the bus at the Andrew Fleming Hospital in Salisbury, he stood and watched the huge African sun fall beneath the horizon. He wanted to be impressed by the beauty, the majesty of this sunset, but he felt nothing.

A nurse greeted Peter and his frazzled companions from the bus. In an overly kind and concerned tone, in a near whisper, she said, "Please have a seat and relax. It shall not be long. We will inform you of any reports as soon as we possibly can. Let me get the names of your loved ones..."

The worried and frightened group waited.

First, the Afrikaner family was called; then the German man; and much later, the three Swedes. Peter heard cries of relief as they walked with the doctor down the hall and prepared to be reunited with their loved ones.

He continued to wait. Another hour went by, then two. _Why is this taking so long? Just tell me he's dead. Let me identify the body and get out of here._ He asked every passing nurse, "Please, do you know what's going on? His name is Chad, Chadwick Daley. Can you find out? Please."

Each one smiled, nodded, and said, "I will see what I can find out," but they never came back.

At eight thirty-nine p.m., a long, thin face peered around the waiting room door and glanced at half a dozen faces waiting for news about less dire situations. "A... Mr...." He looked at his clipboard. " Mr. McKnight?"

The doctor led Peter down the corridor. He walked briskly and introduced himself as Dr. Shelby. With his eyes straight ahead, he asked, "You are the friend of Mr. Chadwick Daley?"

Peter muttered an inaudible response.

He continued, "I understand that Mr. Daley has no relatives in the area, in the country? Is that correct?" He glanced at Peter, who nodded his head and held his breath. The doctor stopped and gripped Peter's shoulder. "Well, your friend is doing very well. He will be fine – just fine."

Peter let his breath out slowly. He wanted to laugh but didn't. Dr. Shelby pointed his long index finger to the base of Peter's neck. "A bullet grazed here, at his external jugular vein, causing a moderate tear. Very fortunately, it was not severed. He was a very lucky young man." He then put thumb and index finger on the lower part of Peter's neck. "The sternocleidomastoid, this muscle, in the anterior portion of the neck, was damaged as the projectile went in here and out here." He touched one side then the other side of his neck. "That shall heal with no problem, though he will be quite sore for a little while. He must be very careful, but it poses no problem. Your friend is an extremely fortunate young man. Another two centimeters, and that vein would have been beyond repair. He was very lucky indeed."

Peter's eyes filled with tears, which he quickly wiped away.

The doctor continued, "Chadwick has lost a significant amount of blood. He will need some topping up. In a day or two, he will regain strength, and in few weeks, he will have full movement in his neck. He'll be good as new in two or three weeks." Dr. Shelby shook Peter's hand and began to walk down the corridor. "If you'll please excuse me now."

Peter stopped the Dr. Shelby as he quickened his stride. "Can I give blood? Would that help?"

"Do you know your blood type?"

"I don't remember for sure."

"We can determine that. I'll let the sister know."

"Can I see him?"

As the doctor walked off, he said, "Give him a wee bit longer. The anesthetic is still wearing off. Come back in an hour or so."

Peter gave blood, ate a sandwich, and drank stewed, lukewarm tea. He found a deserted waiting room and lay on the floor in a corner. He closed his eyes and prayed: for Chad, for the families dealing with trauma, for the bus driver's and soldiers' families being told of their loss. He prayed he would not have a panic attack. He fell asleep for the first time in thirty-six hours.

***

Chad had no idea what time or what day it was as consciousness slowly returned. He only knew it was dark outside. _Where the hell am I? What the hell happened? What's going on_? His disorientation was unnerving.

Then he remembered: an explosion, gunshots, machine guns blasting, vibrating his whole body. Then, nothing. _God. Where's Pete? Is he alive? How many died? My God, where's Peter?_

He was trying to get up when he saw tubes in both arms: one with a bag of blood, the other containing saline with a morphine drip. He attempted to sit up, but as he did, his whole body began to wobble. _I don't like this. God, am I dying_? As he looked around the empty, sterile room, excruciating pain shot through his neck. He screamed. Then the pain went down into his shoulder and up into his head. He screamed again but tried to muffle it. He could only lay motionless, hoping the pain would retreat, and then he drifted off to sleep.

Something startled Chad out of his dreamless slumber. _How long have I been out this time?_ He felt more alert, stronger and – thank God – in less pain. He moved his right arm slowly toward his neck and gently touched the thick bandages. He wanted to look and see the damage, to figure out what had happened.

A voice quietly said, "Now, now. You are to leave that alone. It wants time to heal. You have a nasty wound that does not want any fussing. How do you feel, Mr. Daley?"

"I don't really know."

"Well, you're doing splendidly, splendidly. I am Sister Drew. I will be looking after you until the morning." Sister Drew spoke with a cheery confidence required of those in caring professions. Her self-assured manner overshadowed her frail build.

"How long will I be ...?"

"Shush now. It shall not be long if you leave those bandages alone and quit flailing those arms around. My guess is two or three days. However, the good doctor will decide that. Now, we must get some more blood in those veins and let you get your strength back." Sister Drew held up a bag of blood, squeezed it and changed it for the one that had just emptied.

"Do you know where my friend Peter is? Peter McKnight? Do you know anything about him?"

"No. I'm sorry, but I will check on him."

"How many... did anyone... die?"

She squeezed the fresh bag again and watched its blood begin flowing through the thin, plastic hose into Chad's body. Then she looked out the window. "I don't know the details, I'm afraid." She turned and walked to the door. "What is your friend's name again?"

Chad's stomach turned. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight. He felt tears coming. The realization overwhelmed him, he could have died, and for all he knew, Peter may have. "What if he's gone? My God, what if he is dead? Damn that coin! Damn him," Chad whispered as he let the tears come.

A few moments later, Peter knocked softly and walked through the door. Both, for a moment, remained speechless. Slight smiles said enough. Even if they had been able to embrace, they would not have done so, for that would have released too many pent-up emotions that were on the verge of erupting.

Peter finally spoke. "That was pretty scary shit. Do you remember much?"

"Gunshots, that's it."

"You're lucky."

"So... what happened?" Chad tried to sit up. He winced and let his body relax.

"Do you really want to know now?"

"I think I need to know."

Peter gave the account of the ambush, of those killed, those injured, of Kebo's evil smile and wink, and of his self-righteous decision to spare their lives once again for who knows why. He talked about the screams, the terror, and the endless buckets of blood. Peter finished his narrative, bit his lower lip, and said, "A flip of the coin, eh?"

"Yeah. Damn coin."

Peter poked the bag of blood and watched it going into his friend's vein. "You realize some of my blood is in there."

"Good God! I'll be transformed into a hopeless depressive."

"Might balance you out. Most of it is African blood, native blood. You can truly say—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Africa is in my blood."
CHAPTER 29

Family Reunion

The morning of his third day in the hospital, Chad woke up in a ward with fourteen other patients. Two were the German and the Swede who were injured in the attack. The two traded stories, reliving the events of that morning countless times. Chad remained silent, aloof for some time, but eventually he did join in. He decided that perhaps sharing his experience would decrease the intrusiveness of the terror, that talking about it might help prevent nightmares of the attack from haunting his nights quite so much. The two men discharged that evening, and suddenly Chad felt isolated among patients who could not imagine the horror he had experienced.

At nine that evening, Chad became agitated when Peter did not return from a simple errand. He had requested a Coke, a candy bar, and a bag of chips. "Damn your budget!" he had told Peter, who had now been gone more than half an hour.

Peter returned with more than the anticipated treats. Chad's mouth dropped when he saw his parents walking with Peter down the ward. As they approached, he felt his chest tighten.

Chad's father, Patrick, wore a sport coat, which looked out of place given his unshaven face, disheveled hair, and bloodshot eyes. Though heavyset, Patrick's physique appeared fit enough to jog several miles a day. Graying hair and wrinkles forming across his temples caused him to appear somewhat older than a man of forty-seven.

His mother, Lucinda, was dressed in loose black trousers and a flowery red blouse, both carefully chosen to veil a figure that had finally succumbed to the cruel onslaught of middle age. As compensation to her own supposed fading attractiveness, she adorned herself with an assortment of matching gold jewelry, which highlighted her fair complexion and blonde hair. Both parents looked weary and harassed, but Lucinda appeared very relieved.

Peter said, "Look who I ran into."

Chad said nothing. He was afraid his emotions would become too overwhelming, too embarrassing if he opened his mouth.

"My God! Look at you." His father said this with blunted affect.

His mother put on an awkward smile. She did not speak, but gave a delicate and prolonged embrace. She finally let out a pained sigh and let her tears flow. She whispered in Chad's ear, "Thank God. Thank God. Thank God." His father stood silent and still as his mother gave him no room to join in this reunion.

Lucinda finally let go and took a step back to examine her only child, scrutinizing every exposed inch, looking for any scratch or bruise the doctors may have missed.

Chad complained, "I'm fine, Mom. I'm fine."

Patrick's mouth contorted as he said, "Yes, so you are. We thought it was much more serious." For Chad, the translation was obvious: _"Damn it! We made this trip for nothing. Why did this woman drag me to the other side of the world?"_

"I didn't ask you to come, Dad. How did you find out anyway?" After Chad said that, he looked at Peter, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

Lucinda replied, "It wasn't Peter. It was Simon who called. He scared us to death. He said you had been in an attack of some sort and that it was very serious... that... that they were not sure you survived. We thought...we thought we would be bringing you back in a coffin." Such words cannot come out of a mother's mouth without tears – tears of guarded joy for what did not transpire, mixed with tears of bitter anguish for what might have happened. She pressed her lips together and fumbled for a tissue in her oversized handbag.

"Yes, it was quite a scare." His father's words seemed accusatory to Chad. He bit his lower lip to prevent any words coming out. Patrick then asked, "What did happen? What the hell happened?"

"I really don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"I need to know," Patrick said, showing a twinge of emotion, although Chad was not sure what the emotion might be.

"No, Dad, you don't. I don't want to talk about it." Chad looked at Peter, moisture welled up in his eyes. "Peter, you can tell them. You were there. You tell them."

With reluctance, Peter told the story. He told it with no emotion, as if it were a mundane affair hardly worth mentioning. He told only the essentials. They did not need the details. They did not need to hear about the pool of blood, their son's vein squirting out blood six feet. There was no need to talk about the screams of children, soldiers having their brains blown out, and his own clothes burned because they were drenched in their son's blood. They did not need to know they had met the terrorist who had masterminded the attack. No, they did not need to know such details. He would never tell his own parents, and he was not about to tell Chad's. Peter finished his tale and excused himself, knowing Chad needed time with his parents, whether he liked it or not.

***

Peter walked down a long sterile corridor to a payphone near the front entrance. It was lunchtime in Oklahoma. His father would be home, sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a ham and tomato sandwich and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper. He would be nattering with his mother, complaining about difficult tenants. He called collect. He feared Simon may have called them as well and that they would be panicking. More than that, he needed to hear their voices.

"Mom? It's me... Yeah, it's great to hear your voice too... No, nothing special... Really. I just wanted to call... No, I am fine. Everything's fine... Dad? Yeah, Hi. No, I am fine... Yeah, we just left Victoria Falls... It was amazing, incredible... Yes, I'm sure I'm all right. How are y'all?... Great!... Really? When's it due?... That's cool... So I'll be an uncle when I get back home. Wow!... No. No problems at all... I know you've been worried... Yes, I know it's been scary for y'all. We've been fine, honestly. We should be back in South Africa at the end of this week... Yeah, I suppose it is safer there... Yeah, a lot safer... I know you have... I know. Keep praying, Mom... I know you will... I love y'all too... I miss y'all too... I love you both... Okay, I will, I will... Bye...Love you.'

Peter hung up and slid down the side of the wall under the phone. With his head buried in his knees, he wept and wept. At that moment, he longed to be home where tragedy and terror were distant anomalies that rarely became reality, where life was simple and safe.

***

Chad's mother pulled a chair up to his bed and gently held his hand. His father stood at the foot of the bed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Lucinda said, "Oh, Chad. We have been worried sick since we heard you were in Rhodesia. You didn't even tell us you were here! We had to hear it from dear Natalie."

"I knew you'd worry, Mom. I didn't want you to worry. I'm sorry."

"And to think now what could have happened... I can't think about it. It was bad enough for you to go to South Africa. I am sorry, Chad... I have been worried sick. I'm just being a mother."

"It's okay, Mom. It's okay. I'm sorry you had such a scare. Simon shouldn't have called you until he had all the details. Really, he shouldn't have called you at all."

"Of course he should have!" His mother stood, bent over and kissed her son, then put her head on his cheek.

Patrick spoke from the foot of the bed. "See what this has done to your mother? See how hard this is for her?" He crossed his arms and turned his head away from Chad. "Look what you've done to us! I don't know what you're doing in this godforsaken, goddamn country anyway. Where did you get this harebrained idea anyway?"

Chad refrained from responding. It was clear that even the near death of his son could not touch his father's heart. It did not appear to evoke an iota of sympathy and certainly no empathy.

His mother's tears resumed. She reached into her handbag, searching for some more tissues.

His father turned, took two steps toward the window, stared out and said, "You're going to come home with us. You will not put us through this nonsense anymore. It is well time you came home."

"There is no way I'm coming home. No fucking way! I'm staying here. That is my decision. Stop treating me like a goddamn child!"

"Chadwick, don't speak to your father that way."

Chad was immediately sorry for speaking like that in front of his mother, but he did not regret his tirade.

Patrick turned and looked at Chad with eyes proclaiming anger and hurt. "You will come home."

"I will go to hell first."

"Please stop it! Please stop it, you two," Lucinda pleaded in a near whine.

"I've had enough." Patrick turned and strutted down the ward through the swinging doors and disappeared.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I am. I hate that. I couldn't help it." His mother gave the look a mother employs to declare disappointment.

Chad was not sure who had disappointed her the most. "Why does he do that? Why does he treat me like that? Like... like a...?"

"Your father wouldn't be here if he didn't love you."

"Oh, Mom! You made him come. You know you did. You wouldn't have come on your own. Stop defending him, Mom. He's always treated me like... like nothing is ever good enough, like...like _I'm_ never good enough."

"Your father loves you more than you can imagine, Chadwick. He just doesn't know how to show it. He doesn't know how to connect with anyone. That is not your fault, and Chad, it's not his fault. He has never known what to do with emotions, so he ignores them. He just pretends they don't exist. To do that... well, he has to push people away... and he pushes away those he truly loves, even though he doesn't mean to."

"Don't make excuses for him, Mom! There's no excuse for being an asshole all your life." Chad paused, and his tone eased. "I only ever wanted a little love, a little acceptance, a slight nod of the head, a pat on the back. He shouldn't be a father if he can't do that." He paused and closed his eyes. "And I don't understand why... why you're still with him." He looked at his mother. "Mom, sometimes I'm angry at you for putting up with him. I'm sorry, but I am so angry at you sometimes."

Lucinda looked down. "I used to be angry at myself... some days." She looked again at her son. "But Chad, I love your father, and I know he loves me. He proves it in his own way, and I have learned to accept that. I don't expect more of your father than he can give."

"That's not fair to you, Mom – to us."

"Chadwick, your dad loves you. However, you cannot expect him to be anything other than what he is. If you can do that, accept him as he is, well, then you will be able to let a little bit of his love inside there." Lucinda pointed to Chad's heart.

"You've deluded yourself. You know you are utterly deluded," Chad said with an impish grin that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm through with him ... and I wish you were too."

"Chad, if I was half as unhappy as you think I am, I would have left long ago. I love your father. I accept who he is, and overall, I am happy. I am."

Chad took his mother's hand and spoke solemnly with a sad resignation, "What about me, Mom? I was never happy. You should have left him for my sake if nothing else."

Words stopped; tears came. They honored one another's tears: tears of regret for lost years and tears for hurts that begged forgiveness but could find no solace.

***

The next morning, Dr. Shelby discharged Chad with stern instructions. "Avoid straining your neck. No twisting and no sudden movement. As much as you are able, look straight ahead, straight ahead." He emphasized this by pointing his index finger down the corridor. "I want you to give this three good weeks to heal. Do you understand? Be extremely careful. You are a very fortunate human being. Just be careful."

The nurse gave Chad a neck brace and with a firm tone told him to keep it on for at least two weeks.

Chad, Peter, and Lucinda walked through the hospital door into the warm morning air. It smelled fresh, exhilarating, and alive to Chad. He took off his neck brace as they walked toward the rented car. He was about to take the bandages off when his mother declared adamantly, with many threats, that he would not touch those bandages and would do exactly as the doctor had instructed. Chad put the neck brace back on.

Patrick stood next to a large sedan, holding the back door open. He forced a smile as Chad approached.

Chad noticed his father's lips quivering, evidence to him that his dad was working hard to maintain a façade. Chad refused to get into the car. He declared with all seriousness, "We'll hitchhike. We don't need a lift."

Peter shook his head and looked hard into Chad's eye. He nearly shouted, "That's idiotic. Just get in the car, Chad."

"I'll get a taxi to the train station. We'll take the train. We shouldn't make them drive all the way to West Nicolson just to go back to Bulawayo to catch their plane."

Peter said, "Stop being the fool. The train's too rough and too crowded."

Chad's father shut the car door and got in the driver's seat. His mother leaned toward Chad and quietly pleaded, " _I want_ some time with you, Chad. I wish we could stay longer, but you know your father has to get back. Do this for me. Spend a little more time with us."

Chad placed his head next to his mother's and whispered, "I'm afraid of what I might say – what he might say."

Lucinda held his chin and leaned close to his face. "I am, too, but please, please make the effort."

Chad got in the car. He vowed to himself that he would keep his mouth shut and his ears closed.

Peter sat in the front passenger seat. Lucinda joined her son in the back seat. Peter read the map as they maneuvered through Salisbury's city center to the main road and then headed first to Bulawayo and then to West Nicolson.

When the car reached its optimum highway speed. Lucinda intruded on what had been a cruel silence. "We all know what happened last night."

Peter did not know, and he was not going to ask – though he did have had a fairly good idea of what might have transpired.

"We are going to enjoy this journey, and we're going to enjoy this time we have together. Dad, do you have something to say?"

Chad turned and looked out the window. He rolled his hidden eyes; this was obviously a rehearsed attempt at reconciliation.

Patrick picked up the cue and with a subdued tone said, "I was out of line last night, son. It was a long trip. Things didn't come out in the right way. I'm... I was out of line."

Chad muttered, "So was I," and that was good enough. Chad had nothing else to say or add. _Let's just get this trip over with_ was his only thought and concern.

His father continued. "It's just... I've never been so scared in my life. I thought... I thought I had lost you. I was so scared. It was too much. I didn't know how to deal with it. I was upset with what happened, not with you. I know things came out all wrong. I'm sorry I came across as I did, but I've never been as relieved in all my life as I was last night. I... I really am... I love you, son... I'm so..."

Chad could see his father was working hard to suppress any further emotions, and he noticed a single tear surface. His dad quickly wiped it away.

Chad wondered what to make of his father's rehearsed speech. It did not sound like his mom had told him what to say, so perhaps he was sincere. _But_ , Chad thought, _it is not enough_. _It can never be enough._ He turned his shoulders to the window and closed his eyes. After all, that was what his dad had taught him, to never give in.

Lucinda asked countless questions about what had happened in their lives over the past six months. It was up to Peter to field the questions. His account of their adventures was abridged; he edited out important twists and turns in the story, such as Chad's romantic interest and the turmoil with his true love's father. Edited as well was the growing conflict he and Chad had experienced as they immersed themselves into two different and separate worlds. He also left out the ugly tales of apartheid, the secret South Africa that all Whites seemed to ignore.

***

Andrew and Nick ran to embrace Peter and Chad as they disembarked from the rented vehicle. It nearly turned into a tackle.

Lucinda held in a scream and managed to say, "Now be careful. Be careful now." She stated this in a normal tone of voice, though her face communicated absolute terror.

Richard and Amanda took their turns giving enthusiastic but gentle hugs. They overflowed with worry, concern, and relief. They greeted Peter and Chad as any parents would – that is, parents who understand that death comes swiftly and indiscriminately in this, their homeland.

After a cup of tea and a snack of yellow-topped cupcakes, enthusiastically prepared the evening before by two hyperactive young lads, Chad's parents got in the car to drive back to Bulawayo and catch a late plane to Mombasa with a connecting flight to JFK.

Chad watched his mother and father drive off. He had given his mother a long embrace before she got into the car. His father had attempted to hug Chad, but his son stepped back. Patrick put out his hand and Chad took another step back. Chad said "Goodbye" and turned away. Chad's mom and dad waved as the car drove off, both with tears in their eyes.

Chad was tired of being stubborn, but he had to refuse his father's apology and his father's offer of a farewell embrace. His father needed to know the depth of his anger. He knew his stubbornness had allowed a chance of reconciliation to slip away. Nevertheless, he deserved to be angry; after all, his father created this anger and this stubbornness.

***

Two days later, Peter and Chad bade tearful goodbyes to the family that had so freely offered undeserved warmth and acceptance. The airplane left Bulawayo Airport and carried them away from the terror and the fear, but also away from a family that had welcomed them as their own flesh and blood.

As they surveyed the Rhodesian landscape from 20,000 feet above, they reflected on memories forged in this wonderful, terrifying land. This country would hold a special place in their hearts – not because of the wonders they had seen, but because of the people that had touched them: Whites and Blacks in love with their homeland, ready to die in it and for it; the individuals and families who faced death and terror daily, while holding their heads high; the grieving and hurting people determined to believe that the goodness in human nature would not be extinguished by the delusions of evildoers. They would never forget this haunted and haunting place.

As they rode the African sky, leaving behind joys and terrors that touched their hearts and souls, both agreed it would be a welcomed relief to return to South Africa. Excitement and anticipation grew with each passing mile. However, the excitement and anticipation were mixed with an increasing apprehension and a sense of foreboding for both travelers.
PART IV

March 3, 1977 - August 1, 1977

CHAPTER 30

Home Again

Peter insisted that Themba join them, but her protest was firm: "Oh, _nee._ It is not my place to sit with you at this table," she said, looking away.

Peter then demanded, "You will join us, and not another word about it. And from now on, you _will_ sit with us on the sofa when you wish to grace us with your presence and watch the TV or just be with us."

Themba laughed and looked at Simon, expecting him to reject Peter's unilateral decision. Simon held a thoughtful gaze, and then in a matter-of-fact manner stated, "Themba, dear, you shall indeed be sitting with us at the table and sofa whenever you are not on duty. Absolutely."

Themba sheepishly joined them at the table, but her cautious smile did not relax for some time.

Chad and Peter then chronicled their travels around the still-cluttered dinner table. Simon and Themba listened with amazement, careful not to ask many questions lest they interrupt the flow of the detailed narrative of their friends' adventures in Rhodesia.

Three pots of tea and two hours later, Chad and Peter recounted the final scene: their tearful farewell at Bulawayo Airport.

Peter let out a heavy sigh. Before the tear that was forming emerged, he stood up and said, "Themba you clear these plates, and I'll wash up."

As Peter disappeared into the kitchen, Themba said, "Oh no! This is not to be necessary." She looked at Simon and let out a faint sigh and shook her head slowly. Then cleared the table and joined peter in the kitchen.

Simon and Chad retired to the comfortable chairs in the living room.

"Chad," Simon said in a low tone.

Chad knew this meant he was about to broach a serious and difficult matter, and he could guess what Simon was about to say.

"I am certainly concerned about you and your father."

Chad pulled in a quick breath and held it. He thought about getting up and leaving. He defiantly crossed his arms and said, "God, Simon! Not now. It's not the time."

"This is as good a time as there ever will be. Your anger is a dangerous thing, Chad."

Chad started to shake his head. Pain shot through his neck into his cheekbone. He winced and simply rolled his eyes. "What? What do you mean? You think I'm going to murder my dad? Take a contract out on him or something? Wow! Simon, I've never thought of that before, but maybe I will. I have some good connections on the east side of Jersey. God, Simon, what do think I am?"

"I am not worried about your father. Chad, your anger will destroy _you_ , not him. That anger hurts you far, far more than it hurts your father. Anger infects us, Chad. Like a cancer that spreads, it eats away at your body and soul."

"You don't make sense sometimes, Simon. You really don't. I'll tell you this though. I can be angry at my dad if I want. That's my right. I don't have to like him, love him, or forgive him. I can hate him. That is my right as a human being. Hell, it's what he asked for, and he's got it."

Simon's empathetic tone waned. "You're playing the victim, Chad. The victim lives in the shadow of other people's failures and mistakes. The victim has no power to move on."

"What a load of psycho-babble bullshit. Victim? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you can either live your life blaming your dad, _or_ you can move on. There is only one way to move on."

"If you're talking about forgiving and forgetting, you can shove it up your ass. You're asking me to pretend nothing's wrong with him. Whatever! Yeah, right. I'm just gonna _will_ our father and son relationship into something sweet and wonderful that it's never been. I don't think you live in reality sometimes, Simon. I really don't."

"Chad, I do believe that is possible."

"You don't understand. You really don't."

"Chad, forgiveness isn't forgetting. It is not saying everything's fine. It is coming to terms with the failures of others and accepting their mistakes. The one who refuses to move towards forgiveness – well, they remain a victim."

Chad stood and took a step toward the bedroom and muttered, "Go to hell."

"I just want you to think about it, that's all. I worry. I... I care about you, Chad."

Chad sat back down. "I know you do, Simon, but it's none of your business. I am fine. Just leave it be."

"Very well."

"You know, I could ask you questions about you and your brother. Why do you still reject him after all these years? Why do you avoid seeing him? Meeting his family? Let me psychoanalyze you and your family, Simon."

Simon laughed, "That is very different, my friend."

"Is it? Maybe you don't hate your brother, but I don't think it is really different."

Simon quickly retorted, "I have not had time to go and see him, and he is so rarely here. It is hard to connect."

"Bull! Those are just excuses. I believe it is because you have never forgiven him for disowning you and your father. Perhaps _you_ need to learn to forgive."

"It is not a lack of forgiveness. However, you are right in saying it is a lack of effort from _both_ sides. And I shall ask you to just _leave it be._ "

"Very well."
CHAPTER 31

Love Lost, Love Found

Late afternoon, Chad biked to Sarah's house at a snail's pace. As he pedaled up a slight incline, he realized that an immobile neck makes riding a bike a very precarious venture. He traveled at a pace that made it challenging to keep the bicycle from wobbling. It did give him time to rehearse, once again, what he would say and how he would say it.

Sarah sat alone in the back garden. She heard the iron gate open and close. She turned her head; her body remained motionless.

Chad could not read the look on her face. Her mouth offered no expression, but her eyes grew bigger. It was as if she had not decided which emotion she wanted to embrace. He stood over her for a few moments before she finally spoke.

"We really thought you had had it, Mr. Daley. Simon made it sound like you were dead and gone."

"Indeed, but as you can see, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Sarah remained seated, looking up at him, her facial expression still indefinable.

Chad had imagined his wound and near-death experience would jolt her into the realization of how much she really did love him, but now a wave of uncertainty and fear was gathering strength in the depths of his being. He reached out his hands, inviting her to stand and said, "I at least deserve a bit of a hug, don't I?"

She stood, wrapped her arms around him, and squeezed him with all her strength. She whispered with childlike innocence, "How could you? How could you do that to me?"

Chad laughed, "Peter called tails. Blame him."

Sarah tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

"I'll tell you some other time. Right now, I just want to be with you, to look at you, to talk to you. Sarah, I just want to love you. Just let me love you."

"I will. And I am just going to love you, Chadwick Daley."

***

Peter had walked for an hour. He had told Simon he needed to relax. In the years to come, he would still insist he was simply wandering with no destination in mind and that he was shocked where he found himself.

Peter stood in front of Cindy's house thinking. _What a coincidence._ A heated debate raged inside his brain. _Sure, I want to see her and talk to her. Yes, I've thought about it. But no, I shouldn't be here. This is ridiculous. Just turn and go. But it'd be good to see her, to talk with her. No, I know she must hate me. Just walk away. Leave her alone. No, she'll be fine. She'll want to see me, to talk to me, to hear what I've been through. No she won't, because you crushed her heart with that letter. Now leave her alone._

He turned and headed back down the street. Then, for no reason he could explain, he turned around, went to her door, and knocked firmly.

"What are you doing here?"

Cindy's question was too harsh. Peter thought about darting off as fast as possible like a small child would after the neighbor caught him breaking a window.

***

Sarah and Chad sat in the back garden watching the sun slide below the horizon.

"A new day is dawning on other side of the world. Isn't that amazing when you think about it?" Sarah asked, then without pausing said, "When Simon said you might not make it, I... I thought I was going to die. For a moment, I wanted to die. Chad, I hate myself for the way I treated you. I hate myself for refusing your love. I hate myself for refusing to love you. When I thought you were... gone, I realized how desperately I need your love and how utterly I love you. And don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"

"Oh, please, please let me say it."

Sarah shook her head as she laughed. Chad pulled her close. "I've tried to figure out why you're so different – why you are the one, I dared to love. With every other female, every other relationship, it's always been a game. But I'm not just playing with you."

"Everyone?" Sarah looked away when she said that.

Chad sighed. "Yeah, okay, you caught me. That _one_ was different, but that's because I grew up with her. I was thirteen when I thought I was in love with her. You can't count that."

"Then why do you write her? Tell me the last time you had—"

"Don't ask because it doesn't matter. She is a dear friend, but romance hasn't been there for a long time – for years. God, I never felt anything like I feel for you, Sarah. I've only ever used girls in the past, every damn one of them. I don't regret that. But now I know what love can be. You, lady, you found my heart. I don't know how you did it, but you did! Promise me you'll take good care of this crusty ole heart."

"Sure! You were right though."

"About what? Oh, I know... about everything."

"What a big head you have, Mr. Daley. About my father. My family. I can't fix them. I will never change my dad. I love him to death, but too often, I just hate him. No. I so hate what he is – I mean what he does. And I know he'll never change. I have to move on. And don't you say 'I told you so.'"

Chad smiled, and then laughed. "I didn't say he would never change. I said you can't change him."

He wrestled her on the grass until their lips met. At that moment, Johan came through the back door.

***

Peter choked as he tried to respond to Cindy's curt question. "I just... I wanted to..." He stopped cold.

"What _do_ you want, Peter?" Cindy stared into space as she spoke.

"Can we talk, just for a minute?" Peter knew his voice and demeanor were embarrassingly sheepish. He took a deep breath and told himself to act like a man. "I'd like to talk. Just for a few minutes. Please?"

"Two minutes. That's all."

"I suppose you got my letter?" Peter knew it was a ridiculous question; he paused, hoping she would pick up the conversation.

She didn't.

Peter continued. "I shouldn't have written it. I should have talked to you in person. I know that, and I'm sorry. We... I should have talked to you a long time ago. I'm sorry, Cindy. Truly, I am."

Cindy said, "So you always felt that way?" Her eyes remained fixed in a sightless gaze over his left shoulder.

Peter knew another dumb statement had just come out. _Now,_ he thought _, I will have to either lie or look like even a worse villain – the villain who led her on from the day she first took my hands in hers._ He finally opened his mouth and let his words come out at will. "No. No. I guess, maybe I've always been confused about us, about everything. I wanted to love you. I want to love you, and I do... but... it's like..." Peter felt a lump in his throat and swallowed, but the stubborn lump remained.

Cindy looked up and scowled at him. Her green eyes became even greener. "I know! Like a sister!"

"No! Like a friend – a very dear and special friend."

" _Ag_ _man_! _Sis_. That sounds even worse. _A special friend?_ What the heck does that mean? I cannot deal with this. I loved you way too much, way too much. You've betrayed me. You used me, Peter! I can't deal with that. But it's all fine, Peter, because I don't care anymore. I can't care anymore! I can't be your... God! Your special little friend! Go find another shoulder to cry on. You can find plenty of other _special friends_ to prop you up."

"I don't want you to feel that way. Maybe after a while we can be friends."

" _Ag nee_ _man_! You really don't get it! I cannot be just friends with someone I love, someone I loved with all my heart. Peter, I'm angry as hell. I can never trust you again. You have hurt me far too deeply."

"I don't know what to say. I didn't want to ruin our—"

Cindy interrupted, " _Nooit_! Just stop. Leave it there."

"I don't want it to be this way. Can't we... I'd like us to—"

"No! Just leave." Cindy looked at the ground and took a slow, controlled breath and with a calm voice said, "I'm leaving in a fortnight. I'm going to spend some time with my aunt."

"Not the one in Rhodesia?"

"Of course. I was going to go earlier in the summer, but I didn't." She paused and glanced quickly at Peter, then looked down again. "She's short of workers at the orphanage, and I'm going to help them out for a while. You know I love it there. I want to go. I've been going there every year since I was fifteen."

"I know, but it's not safe there, and it's getting worse. I don't want you to go."

"It's fine. They don't have problems like that in the orphanages, the missions. They've never had any problems. It's fine. I need to go."

"That's not true. People are dying there every day. You can't go. No way."

Cindy's face contorted, her cheeks lit up with a fiery red tint, and her eyes grew large. She looked him straight into his eyes and spoke very slowly. "Friends do not tell their friends where they can and cannot go. Friends do not have that right. Friends come and go, and I'm going."

"I need you, Cindy. I need you to stay... I... damn it, you just shouldn't go there."

Her eyes now blazed. "Are you that dense? Peter, we will never be friends. I will never get over the fact that you willfully and utterly used me. From the moment we first held hands to when we embraced and when we kissed and when we first... you were just using me. You never had any intention of, how did you say it? Of anything more. You played me for such a fool. Please leave. Just go home."

Peter left.

***

Chad and Sarah sprang up like startled kittens when they heard the back door open and quickly slam shut. Johan approached, holding two beers in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He put a beer in Chad's hand and said. "Howzit, my bru? You do look bloody awful, eh?"

Chad squinted in the fading light, trying to read Johan's expression. _Is this Johan my friend and mate or Johan the overprotective father? Or is it Johan the boozer, desperate to escape his sober state?_

"I'm good. Real good. _Hoe haan dit met yo_?"

"Heard things got pretty rough for you _okies_ there in that bloody Rhodesia. _Aweh_! It is good to see you, man."

Johan's greeting encouraged Chad. He felt his muscles somewhat relax. Chad said, "I'm glad to see you too."

"I'm sure you are, but I know you are much more pleased to see my Sarah."

"Uh... yeah... it is good to see her. Yes, it is."

"Indeed! Now make some room for me on that blanket, and you tell me all about those adventures of yours."

"Actually I need to get back. Simon will have dinner ready, and I don't want to keep him waiting. Time just got away from me."

"I see. You and Peter are to join us tomorrow. We will have another _braai_ before the evenings become too cool. We will have a good old-fashioned dop 'n chop. _Ja_?"

"Sounds good." Chad was not going to stay around and be chaperoned by anyone's father. He gulped down the last half of his beer and slowly stood up. "I'll look forward to tomorrow, but I've got to get going. _Dankie_ for the beer. What time tomorrow?"

"Oh, six... no, make it seven ... no, seven thirty"

"Great."

Chad noticed Johan glowering at him as Sarah got up and took his hand. He felt the glare burning on the back of his fragile neck as they walked through the gate to the front of the house.

"That went pretty fine," Sarah said with a lilt in her voice.

Chad countered, "You think? It's hard to tell. I know your dad likes me, but I think he hates me just as much."

"You may be right, but don't worry about it."

Chad painstakingly cycled home, guided by the streetlights of Vanderbijlpark. Emotions were exploding deep in his belly. _This is it! Nothing can stop us now. Not even Johan. Yeah, nothing!_ His confidence in their now unfettered love was unshakeable.

***

Peter started walking back to Simon's home. His mind was encumbered by three intruding and disturbing thoughts: _I need, and I want Cindy's friendship; I would have loved her if I could have and still cannot fathom why I couldn't; and why did the one I love in Norwood, Kentucky, so heartlessly betray me?_

***

At eleven p.m., Chad and Simon decided they should look for their friend. By twelve, they were exhausted and tired of searching the entire city for him. By one a.m., agitation displaced the remnants of their fading sympathy. It was well past one a.m. when they found Peter on the outskirts of Vanderbijlpark. They simply ordered him to get in the car without asking any questions. As Peter shut the car door, he told them he had been looking for a Motel 6.
CHAPTER 32

The Debate

Peter determined that the mire of thickening depression would not suck him into another abyss. He made himself call Richard's church.

"Peter? Peter! We have been praying so very much for you and Chad. My goodness, it is good to hear from you. Is all well with dear Chad? You two gave us quite a scare!" Dumisani answered.

Peter took a slow breath, letting the Zulu's affirming tone fill his soul. "Chad's doing great – back to his old insufferable self. I was wondering if the church was up to anything. Going to the townships anytime soon? I've missed that."

"Yes, indeed. This week we shall be attending a rally in Sharpeville. Indeed, Roger and I are proud to be speakers for this event. It is to be quite an event. If you are interested, you should surely join us."

"Sure! That would be cool. Great. Thanks."

"Sharpeville is very close to you. We would be pleased to pick you up early on Saturday. Do you think Miss Cindy may be joining you?"

"No. Just me this time."

"Very sad. And dear Chad, do you think you may talk him into joining us?"

"Slim to no chance, but I'll ask. He'll give in one of these days."

"Perhaps. We shall see you then, Peter."

***

Only because he had said he would, Peter asked Chad to join him on Saturday for the rally; he refused, as expected. "A rally? You've got to be joking. They will lynch a little White boy like you, particularly if they find out you're from the South. They'll pull you apart and quarter you for the sake of all their ancestors you Southerners killed and abused."

"I'm not from _the South,_ thank you ... and it will be perfectly safe. And, by the way, I don't appreciate your attempt at humor."

"Sorry. Sorry."

Peter rolled his eyes.

Chad continued, "I am worried. Really, I don't think those places are safe for you, but it's your choice. I understand that. It's fine if that's what you want, but ... well, you already know I'm not interested." Chad's tone became uncharacteristically reflective. "It's like... I don't know... like you want to be Black. No, wait ... maybe it's that you want to... to be the White guy making amends for all the atrocities of hundreds of years ago. Or are you ashamed to be White or something?"

Peter could not discern if Chad's question was sincere or cutting; he responded in a guarded manner. "Don't worry about analyzing it, because I don't really know. There's just something about being in the midst of the _real_ Africa – not the Africa the Whites hide in. It's such a privilege to be allowed a peek into their world. And it is _their_ world. It can never be mine – I know that, Chad – but it is such an honor, a real honor, to go and have a glimpse, just a meager glimpse, into what it means to be African." Peter paused, and his tone changed. "I refuse to be the average White, self-absorbed, xenophobic American."

"Are you suggesting I'm a racist? There you go again. We're just all racist, eh? Flip! That's a crock of shit. Oh, _we_ Caucasians, _we_ are just all evil. Is that how you see it? I've never been a racist, xenophobe, or whatever you're going on about. Geez Peter, you are back to your goddamn condescending self. Speak for your own unrefined Southern ass."

Peter shook his head, and he felt his face start to burn. "You are a bloody racist, every bit as I am. Tell me you don't see yourself as entitled. You turn a blind eye to the bloody injustice all around you. But that's _okay._ I know, because we can't change it. We can't change a goddamn thing, so let's just enjoy it. You just love this _White_ South Africa."

"That doesn't make me racist. It is what it is. And yeah, I enjoy it. Yeah, apartheid is wrong and disgusting, but I'm not here to change the world. I'm not a racist just because I'm not out to change things here, because I'm happy working with White people, because I enjoy this country as-is."

When Simon arrived home, Chad immediately drew him into the conversation. "Simon, am I a racist? Do you think I'm a racist?"

"I wouldn't say so, Chad." Simon immediately sat down with a slight grin on his round face, ready to enjoy the debate. He leaned back in his chair and continued, "But perhaps that depends on how one defines racism."

Chad replied, "It's hatred of people of a different race. It's people out to destroy those who are different."

Peter said, "No, it's intolerance. No, wait ... more than that, it's thinking we are better than those different from us."

Chad replied, "Peter says all Whites are racist just because they happen to be White. Are you? Are you a racist, Simon? You evil English South African."

Simon's grin grew into a smile. He sat forward and prepared to join in the spirited exchange.

Peter gave Chad a demeaning glance and then looked at Simon. "Well? Are you?"

"Hmm ... by your definition, I think not. Do I live in a racist country? I do not believe so. Is the government inherently racist? Perhaps. Indeed, its policies are racist. Apartheid is racist, of course, but Peter, I'm sure that does not make all White South Africans racist."

Peter's Southern drawl became slightly more noticeable. "Don't you expect an African to move aside as you meet him on the sidewalk? Don't you expect him... demand him to defer to you? Tell me you don't give him that look of expectation, that look that says _you will move aside_. And why? Simply because _he_ is Black and _you_ are White."

"The answer is no. The Bantu will move aside because he knows the consequences if he does not. Those behind him would attack him, police could get involved, and he would likely go to jail. That is not right, but that is our society at the moment. It does not make me a racist, Peter. I would gladly defer to anyone coming my way. However, in such a case, it would only cause trouble for me and for him."

Peter rebutted, talking more quickly, "Sure it would, because you would be labeled a Kaffir lover. You'd be ostracized by your own. Admit it, Simon. Down in your gut you assume you are superior, worth more than the Blacks, the Indians, the Coloreds. That's been instilled in the depths of your Caucasian soul since the day you were born. Oh, you may smile at a Black man. Hell, you may even nod to him and soothe your tainted conscience. But deep down is that smugness, that arrogance that whispers, 'I'm better. I'm more human.' It comes across in every word you speak to a Black – not that you ever have proper conversations with them. Maybe you don't want to admit that, but the reality is you can't help it. You are a White South African. The thing is, I can't help it either because I'm a White American. That arrogance is in my soul too. The difference is I don't want to be that way. There are very few White South Africans who recognize that arrogance and precious few who abhor their built-in arrogance. Tell me I'm I wrong."

"You are full of shit is what you are." Chad answered. "Bullshit scooped up from a thousand Oklahoma pastures."

Simon suppressed a subtle chuckle. "No. Peter is certainly right. I pray every day I may be one of the few."

Peter looked down and stared at the strips of the zebra pelt on the floor. With a somber tone, he said, "We have our own version of apartheid in America. My parents never say a negative thing about Blacks, never. But I grew up feeling I was better than 'those Coloreds,' as my grandma used to say. 'Those Coloreds,'" he repeated in an exaggerated Southern drawl. "They lived on the eastside, that's where _they_ belonged. We knew it and they knew it. I'd feel uncomfortable when _they'd_ come to restaurant on _our_ side of town – or, heaven forbid, to our church. They lived in a different world, and that was fine, that was _right_." Peter paused and looked up and out the window. "Prejudice... it's not understanding, not wanting to understand someone different. It's not caring about the world they live in. Isn't that the basis of racism? It's being absorbed in the color of your own skin." Peter looked toward Themba as she entered the living room with a steaming a pot of tea.

Themba's always-patient smile and accepting eyes greeted the trio. "Milk and one sugar for Chad, milk and two sugars for Simon, and, of course, only milk for Peter. Here you are."

Peter watched her slip back to the kitchen to continue her dinner preparations. He said, "The goddamn tragic and unforgivable reality is that the White people forced proud, wonderful people into worlds they didn't ask to be a part of. Whites taking Africans across the ocean in slave ships. Nation after nation conquered and colonized by greedy and ruthless Europeans. It was the same with the Indians in America. Whites and Europeans took the blessings God bestowed and abused them. What would the world look like if our White ancestors had shared those blessings instead of grabbing more and more and more? Shame on them and shame on us."

Chad stood up and shook his finger at Peter. "Shame on us? Freakin' hell! It wasn't our doing. Screw you, Peter. We weren't even there."

"Oh, but you're here now, my friend. We're here now." With that, Peter took his cup of tea and retreated to the kitchen.

CHAPTER 33

Rally

The swelling crowd simmered with anticipation as Peter, Roger, and Dumisani arrived early Saturday morning at Sharpeville. As it was already an uncomfortably warm and humid day, Peter's shirt was soaked through by the time the three made their way to the makeshift stage set up in the modest football stadium.

" _Sawubona_ , _Ninjani_?" someone greeted Peter.

He replied, contorting his tongue the best he could to mimic the Zulu pronunciation, " _Sawubona_ , _ngisaphila. Ninjani_?"

Another greeted him, " _Kunjani_?"

He replied, " _Ndiphilile enkkosi. Kunjani_?"

That was the extent of his Xhosa and KwaZulu, yet hundreds came and greeted Peter, all with infectious smiles magnified by the glaring sun.

Peter looked around. He noticed the immensity of the gathering, which far exceeded the 500 Roger had anticipated. He felt his stomach turn, and his lungs labored to draw in enough oxygen. He thought there must be at least 5,000 souls engulfing him, mostly young adults and schoolchildren. He closed his eyes and took several prolonged, deep breaths. Then he began to hear the chatter of the masses – a human orchestra buzzing – like instruments being tuned: a discordant cacophony that would soon morph into something beautiful and meaningful. He opened his eyes and looked at the sea of black faces, and his anxiety immediately disappeared. The symphony was beginning – a symphony that promised to reach deep into the soul of this crowd and fulfill a long suppressed anticipation. Rolling crescendos of excited chatter turned to chants, and then songs began to rise and subside. This was their moment, their time.

Peter surveyed this scene as an honored spectator. He was an outsider, a White man peering through a window, observing an exciting and wonderful proclamation of a nation, a people. "This is Africa!"

A tinge of sadness crept into his heart. _Cindy would love this, and how they would love her – the strange redheaded White woman who loved her Africa. She should be here._ He fought against tears that were begging to fall. He wasn't sure if these were tears honoring the emotion of the moment or tears grieving the absence of his friend. Or were they tears grieving lost love? He willed the tears away.

The African chants and spontaneous songs continued to come in hypnotic waves, rousing the spirits within and the spirits without. A bishop from the Zionist church approached the podium. He wore a yellow and green robe, which a persistent warm breeze inflated like a balloon. The crowd hushed as he raised his arms. "We have anticipated this day – the day we would come together and join in proclamation of our hope, our determination. We have been anticipating this day, this time, for a hundred years. Our ancestors anticipated this moment, and now they look down and beseech us, 'Do not give up! This is your time.'"

In overpowering unison, the throng shouted its grand proclamation, "This is our time! This is our time! This is our time!"

He raised his arms again, and silence fell. As he announced those who were to speak, each name stirred applause, and each succeeding name commanded more enthusiasm. Then he prayed, uttering rousing prayers inviting God to speak, to move, to guide. He shouted "Amen!" and then said, "I invite you to sing with us a hymn, a hymn born out of the great struggle against slavery in the time of America's fight for abolition." His voice boomed forth the stirring lyrics:

" _Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord..._

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible, swift sword...

His truth is marching on!

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

_In the beauty of the_ lilies, Christ was _born across the sea..._

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free...

While God is marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

_While God is marching on!_ "

Roger spoke first. "What joy it is to be here – what an honor, a privilege, to share in this gathering, to witness this historical time in our nation."

The crowd erupted, and chants rose and fell for several moments.

He continued, "Many Whites, many White churches stand with you against the evils of apartheid. They are appalled by the tragic mistakes of a misguided and blind National Party."

Cheers, then chants, welled up again.

"This is your fight, but do not fight it alone! You have the support of many White brothers and sisters demanding an end to cruel apartheid! We stand with you. We stand with you in our prayers and with our support. Many Whites look forward with you to the end of the abomination that is apartheid and to the end of majority rule!"

The crowd responded to his declaration of hope and solidarity with chanting and dancing.

Next, Dumisani stepped up to the podium. He spoke with less inhibition than Peter had seen in him before. His emotions were unleashed. "Progress has been too long in coming, but now it rolls forward, becoming stronger and stronger. It is already unstoppable. Change is coming. It is inevitable. Be patient, be strong. Be faithful to who you are. Who are we?"

"We are Africa! We are Africa!" the crowd erupted.

Dumisani raised one arm and continued with a more cautious tone. "We do not protest out of hatred. We do not protest out of bitterness. Our protest must be fueled by a holy anger and a confident pride – a confident, assured pride that we are Africa. Keep your hearts righteous and pure. There is to be no room for hatred. Justice is what we fight for, and evil we will destroy. But I implore you not to let evil take root in your hearts and turn you into oppressors. This, my brothers, we must not do. God forbids evil to prevail! Trust in Him, and fight the good fight!"

Three more speakers followed, each giving an emboldened call to believe and to act. They praised and called for total support of the ANC, the African National Conference. With each succeeding speaker, the crowd grew louder, more enthusiastic, and more incensed. The chanting and dancing seemed to intensify with each word uttered from the podium.

The last speaker moved fragilely to the podium. He walked with a cane, bent over, exerting obvious effort with each step. He put his hands on either side of the podium and forced his trembling frame to straighten. He pulled a slip of paper out of a pocket hidden in his brightly colored vestment. Despite a trembling resonance in his voice, every word he spoke exuded pride, dignity, and wisdom. "I have here a letter, smuggled out from Robben Island prison a few months after Soweto. It is from our leader, Madiba, Nelson Mandela."

The crowd exploded. The tribal chieftain raised a wobbling arm, and the crowd fell quiet.

"Madiba writes this to us, his brothers in this struggle...

... _The rattle of gunfire and the rumbling of Hippo armored vehicles since June 1976 have once again torn the veil [hiding the abomination of apartheid]... The toll of death and injured already surpasses that of all past massacres carried out by this regime... [The] verdict is loud and clear: Apartheid has failed..._

_We face an enemy that is deep rooted, an enemy entrenched and determined not to yield. Our march to freedom is long and difficult, but both within and beyond our borders, the prospects of victory grow bright ... Amandla ngawethu! Matla ke a Rona!_ i

The chants began in English: "Power to the people! Victory is certain!" The dancing grew more enthusiastic until it became frenetic.

Seeing and hearing all of this, Peter felt fear and awe welling up in his belly. The emotions unnerved him, but he longed to understand the depth of this pure, raw passion. He wanted to understand their oppression. His was only a meager glimpse of their struggle, their degradation, their rage, their hope. He knew it would only ever be an unworthy glimpse. He was White – he lived in a White world and could never fully understand the reality of the world they had been forced to live in. He would never comprehend the depths of this emotion. He simply wanted to respect, appreciate, and honor their passion, their anger and their hope.

***

Peter and Roger shared a meal with Dumisani and his wife's family after the rally. The small, one-bedroom, one living room home was brimming with family members: Dumisani's wife and their four children, her mother, two sisters and one brother, their spouses, and countless cousins.

Standing in a cramped circle, Dumisani gave thanks for the meal and the rally and implored God to bring a peaceful revolution. The women served up chicken and mealie and sent the children outside. The adults sat on the floor in a large circle and enjoyed their food and this stolen moment together.

Free-flowing conversations filled the small room, half in Zulu and half in English, with an occasional slip into Afrikaans.

Dumisani noticed Peter's sheepish expression, " _Cha,_ no, no. We must all speak in English. We must not leave our American guest in this whirlwind of African banter. Peter, I do apologize. You must shake your fist harshly at anyone not speaking English. Except for my mother-in-law, dear _Ugogo_ (a Zulu word referring to a grandmother), who speaks little English but understands what you say quite well."

Dumisani leaned closer to Peter and said quietly but loud enough for all to hear, "She's speaks English better than I do. She is just an old-fashioned, stubborn grandma we have learned to ignore." As others laughed, a chicken bone bounced off Dumisani's forehead. Then more chicken bones pelted Dumisani. "You see, Peter, what disrespect African females have for their men? It is truly shocking."

" _Eish_! _Eish_!" Grandma spoke slowly, accentuating every other word. "What is a shock to me is that my daughter has been quite unable to teach you proper respect. And that in no way reflects on the daughter of mine, but rather the poor choice our family made in accepting you to be her husband. For this, my daughter, I am very, very sorry."

Dumisani arose and pulled his wife up off the floor. He danced with her, carefully avoiding the encroaching circle of feet. " _Yebo, Ugogo, yebo_. Indeed, you are so very right. How glad I am that you were all so blind – or, perhaps, that I was so convincing. Certainly, I have the most wonderful woman in all of Africa, and for that, dearest _Ugogo_ , I bow down to you and honor you."

The men hissed and booed and chicken bones flew around the room. Anecdotes about Dumisani, the children, and grandma followed.

After several stories, _Ugogo_ stood up. With tears trickling down her cheeks, she spoke, "Those were the days when we were all together. Now we steal visits and hope we do not become caught. Months at a time, we wait to see our family. That is the gift apartheid and the colonialists have given us." They stood one by one and embraced the matriarch.

Dumisani looked at Peter. "My wife, my children, they are not to be here. Nisha must be in Bophuthatswana, unless she obtains papers to work elsewhere. My sisters-in-law are not supposed to be here either. The government sent them to the Munsieville Township two months ago. They decided, for reasons we do not understand, that they belong there and no longer in Sharpeville with _Ugogo_ ; so she remains here now all alone. The government decides these things knowing very well – and certainly not caring about – the impact they are making upon our families. My dear sister-in-law's husband lives in a township a hundred and twenty kilometers away. She has not seen him for eight months. This is the first time I have seen my family in six weeks. You can imagine, Peter, that this does not help the problem of infidelity." Dumisani looked toward his wife. "But I will never forget our marriage, our love." Looking at Peter, he said, "That is what they want, but to hell with them! I so want to pray that God will never, never forgive them. Pray for us, Peter."
CHAPTER 34

The State of Affairs

Chad wanted to tell Peter that he had hardly missed him since he started spending most of his time with the Johannesburg congregation. _But no_ , he told himself, _that would be cruel and unnecessary, and Peter is doing what he thinks he has to do. Just bite your tongue._ If Chad had been more honest, he would have admitted his own efforts in the church were no more than a sideshow for him. His attention, his focus, his passion, was on nurturing a worthy and lasting relationship with Sarah; that was all that mattered. Peter once hinted that Chad's infatuation with Sarah had developed into a "gross and obnoxious obsession." Chad did not argue and simply stated, "She is why I'm here. That is all that I care about. So be it."

Chad knew his days in South Africa were evaporating far too quickly. The passage of time can be so cruel: It seemed each day lasted for only a few heartbeats. He became more intense, more desperate, making the most of every moment he had left with Sarah.

They spent lingering evenings watching the royal African sun disappear while the stars of the southern hemisphere stealthily took their places. They talked of engagement, of marriage. They fantasized about a life together, about perfect children, raised perfectly. Both promised that the other would be insanely happy.

They did not talk about where this storybook paradise would be built; that might cause unwanted debates and unsettling arguments. There was no time to deal with such distractions. The subject of where home would be remained a secret that each heart guarded.

Lying under a blanket, with the chill of a late autumn evening taking hold, Chad nonchalantly said, "Your dad is late again. That's four nights this week. Three nights last week, four—"

"Shut up! I know. He's working late."

"So you've said, but your mom, she started smoking again. She seems—"

"Don't, okay? I know. She doesn't like it. Would you?"

"I don't know. Something's just different. When your dad's home, he's only drinking one beer instead of his usual seven or eight or nine."

"So? What is your point? He's cut down. Maybe he's back in AA. Maybe that's where he is." Sarah's tone betrayed any confidence in her own words.

"Sarah, what's going on? I'm not blind. What's up? And it isn't work, and it isn't AA."

Sarah sat up and looked at her house. Her mother sat alone on a stool in the kitchen, sipping tea and smoking a cigarette. "It's not good. He's done this before – twice. When I was younger, before... before he stopped his binging." She paused and looked straight into Chad's moonlight-enhanced eyes. "He had an affair. Twice, with the same woman. Does that count twice, or is it only once?"

"How old were you then?"

"Seven the first time. Eleven... no, twelve the second time."

"I'd count that as two. Are you sure, or are you guessing? What does your mom think?"

"She'll deny it until she can't. I think he is, but I choose not to believe what I think. I just won't believe it. It won't... it wouldn't last long."

"That doesn't make sense. You know, but you don't want to know? You're just happy to ignore it? That doesn't make sense either."

"If I determine not to believe it, then maybe it's not true."

"So is it the same woman? Not that it's true, mind you."

"Don't know. Maybe not ... probably."

"Why don't you ask him? Why don't you talk to your mom about it?"

"Yeah, right. Let's pry open Pandora's Box and let the _kak_ explode and bury us all."

Chad took Sarah's hand and with it pointed at the stars. "Where's that constellation, the flying fish?"

"There." Sarah pointed his finger at each star of the constellation. "Volans, the flying fish. And there. There is Mensa. You'll never see those constellations where you used to live."
CHAPTER 35

Susan

Roger's church, Grace Presbyterian, wrestled with battles of their own. Like woodworms busy in the darkness, destroying the value of the prized antique armoire, tension and dissension was infesting the congregation: "You're getting too liberal ... You're leaning toward that liberation theology ... These outreaches are just too divisive."

The quiet dissent increased after each outreach and each report from the pulpit describing the efforts in the townships and _bantustans_. Personal attacks on Roger increased, including phone calls, letters, and private conversations. More and more, smug parishioners pulled him aside in the hallway or parking lot or called him late at night, all expressing their concerns that were really nothing more than veiled demands. Some of these demands turned into threats. Somehow, though, Roger ignored it all.

Attacks on Dumisani were more subtle. Increasingly, church members treated him like a Bantu, and the word "Kaffir" began to slip past the lips of people more often. Dumisani ignored this.

The persistent and hungry woodworm gnawed quietly until the damage became, perhaps, irreversible.

***

"Disgusting!" Peter declared when he heard that a group of twenty people had left the church.

"No, it is fine, Peter." Roger stated with confidence. "Others will follow them, and that is fine, as well. I am not here to please. I answer to God and my own conscience. We will carry on with our mission, our calling. Not all understand, and not all can accept the direction we are taking. It is well that they move on. That should not worry us."

Roger's last statement ignited an uneasy feeling in Peter. He repeated Roger's declaration with a questioning look, "That should not worry us?"

"Peter, Jesus experienced the same. His closest followers left. We should expect no less. His closest followers betrayed Him. We can expect no less."

***

Chad had nearly drifted off to a sleep on the sofa when the phone rang late Tuesday evening.

George spoke slowly. "Susan Van den Berg is in hospital."

Another breakdown? Another bloody breakdown!

George continued with deliberate succinctness. "She has tried to commit suicide, Chad."

"What! Why? How?"

"We don't know."

"Shit! Sorry. Where's Sarah? Where's Johan?"

"We don't know where Johan is, but Sarah is with Susan. Chad, can you please pick Lisa up and take her to the hospital?"

"Do you think she should see her mom like that? Can she handle it?"

"Yes. Please pick her up. She is staying the night with Emma at the Thompson's. Do you know where they..."

"Yeah. They're on Mt. Moriah Circle, near the edge of town, right?"

"Yes. After you pick her up, please see if you can locate Johan. Chad, it does sound significant this time."

Simon stayed home making calls, trying to find Johan. Peter was in Johannesburg. As Chad drove, he debated with himself as to what he would say to Lisa and how he would say it. _How do you tell someone their mother wants to die?_

When he arrived, Emma answered the door with Lisa peering from behind. "What are you doing here?" Emma asked with a coy grin.

"Lisa, you need to come with me."

"No! Why? Is it Mom? I hate her. Has she gone wacko again? I'm not going. She'll be fine."

"I'm sure she'll be okay, but I need to take you to the hospital. Just come."

Emma declared, "I'm coming too."

Lisa hugged Emma and whispered in her ear. "No, don't. I'll come back. I'll see you later." Lisa slammed the car door hard enough to rattle the whole car. "So what happened this time?"

"I really don't know." Chad could lie with the best of them, and he knew this was a forgivable fib. "Do you know where your dad is?"

"How would I know?" she said defiantly.

"Do you? It's important."

Lisa's volume increased. "Why? What's going on, Chad?"

"Nothing!" Chad paused, then calmly said, "He just needs to know where your mom is. Where is he?"

"I don't know!" she said, this time in a restrained scream.

"I think you do. Just tell me. It's no big deal, but we need to find him. Where the hell is he?"

"Well, I ... we're not supposed to know."

"Tell me, damn it!" Chad shouted. He took a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Where is your dad?"

"He's in Vereeniging. We – Sarah and me – went there the other night to see if the kombi was there, to see if he was with _her_ again. We can't go there. We can't. No way! That's where he is. Don't make me go. Take me to hospital."

"I can't. I need you to show me where he is. I don't know my way around Vereeniging."

"He'll kill me. Probably both of us. You know that. Is mom dead?"

"No!"

"Is she dying?"

"God. No. She's not dying. She's fine, I'm sure."

After several firm knocks, Chad pounded on the door. He was petrified – not an emotion he was familiar with. _This is crazy. What am I doing here? Will the crazy drunken brute kill me or just beat the hell out of me?_

_She_ opened the door. Her full-figured frame was partly covered by an oversized and crinkled pink blouse, halfway-unbuttoned drawing attention to her tired, saggy breasts. Wine splashed over her glass as she opened the door and curtly asked, " _Wat wil jy?"_

Chad stood motionless for a moment, wondering if this was the right house. _Jesus!_ _Johan could not be with a woman like this_. This thought impeded his reply, but he finally asked with a rather demanding tone, "Is Johan here?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I can't help you."

"Johan!" Chad shouted with as much urgency as he could induce.

"What in the hell are you doing here, _mompie_?" Johan's fist balled up as he walked toward the door.

"Susan's in hospital. It's serious."

Johan closed his eyes and sighed. "Well? How serious?"

"Serious enough to come here."

***

Sarah darted toward Johan as he ran down the corridor; Chad and Lisa followed several strides behind. As Johan approached, Sarah lifted her bloodstained shirt and shook it at her father. When he made an effort to embrace her, she began pounding his chest with blows that drove Johan backwards. "How could you do this!? How could you do it again!? God, I hate you! I hate you!"

Johan absorbed her beating in silence, backing up until he was pinned against the corridor wall; with her eyes closed, she continued hitting him with full force.

Lisa grabbed at Sarah's flailing arms and could only slow them down slightly. She screamed, "Where's Mom? Is she okay? Where is she?"

"I'm sorry, Lizzie. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. God! I'm so sorry."

"You told her! You told her! Get away from me! Go to hell, Sarah! Go to hell!"

"I'm sorry." Suddenly, her sobs broke loose and tears quickly covered her cheeks and flowed down her blouse mingling with her mother's blood; the fabric of her shirt turned a pinkish hue.

Johan slipped to the floor and moaned as he tried to keep sobs from taking control. Lisa swung her fist at Sarah, catching her on the left jaw. Chad grabbed Lisa from behind and held her tight until her anger turned to woeful tears.

After ten minutes, the initial wave of emotion receded. The three family members embraced one another, sharing quiet tears.

Chad stood watching, not knowing what his role should be. Part of him wanted to turn and walk quietly down the corridor, to escape. The pain was too much for an outsider to bear, and he felt very much an outsider. Part of him wanted to grab Sarah and hold her as tight as he could until her pain subsided. He wanted somehow to make this all go away. He slipped into an empty room and sat down on a bare, cold hospital bed. He felt helpless and inadequate as he listened to a family weep for lost life.

Chad eventually heard a nurse ask the family gently and lovingly if they were ready to say goodbye; tears turned to sobs once again. Chad followed behind as the nurse escorted them to the room where Susan's body now rested. He stood in the background, watching a family, minus one, still unable to believe such a thing could happen to them. Silently, they stood around the bed. Each had questions they could not ask, but there was no point, for their questions would never find answers.

Sarah turned, stepped back, took Chad's hand, and brought him into their circle. Both squeezed their entwined hands tightly.

He wanted to yank her away from this. _Her life should not be like this. Families should not have to endure such things._

Sarah embraced him as quiet tears flowed down her cheeks.

He was afraid to ever to let her go. With his chin nestled on her shoulder, he closed his eyes and wondered what would happen next. How would this horrific night would dictate their tomorrows?

***

Chad drove the family home in the kombi. "You'll stay?" Chad was taken aback by Johan's emotionless request.

"Sure. Of course."

Johan did two things when he walked through the door. First, he removed all the liquor out of its locked cabinet, gathered all the beer bottles from the refrigerator, and poured all of it down the kitchen sink. "I don't want any temptation," he said in a tone devoid of life. He then grabbed a cleaning bucket and mop, and went into the bathroom. He scrubbed away all evidence of the tragedy. Sarah, Lisa, and Chad sat silently on the sofa, as close together as possible. They could hear the sound of the stiff, harsh brush cleaning the pink floor tiles, the turquoise enamel sink, and the matching bathtub.

An hour later, Johan came out, gathered blankets and a pillow, and walked toward the back door. He turned as he exited the living room. "I am sorry... I'm... I love you two." He looked at his two girls for a moment and opened his mouth again, but nothing came out. He turned and retired to the maid's room behind the garage.

Silent grief engulfed the three of them for several moments, and then Sarah, staring into nothingness, spoke. "I came back from college. Mum was in the kitchen crying, just barely crying. She looked at me with angry, sad, desperate eyes, and said, 'You know, don't you?' 'No,' I said. 'What are you talking about?' I said. Mum looked at me, with one tear going down her cheek and... she said, 'You know. Tell me what you know.' I said, _'_ I don't know anything, Mom. I really don't.' Her eyes were demanding, so desperate. I had to tell her the truth – that we'd seen the kombi night at that bitch's house. That was what I told her." Sarah stopped for a moment and laid her head on Lisa's shoulder. She continued, "She stopped crying. Then, all of a sudden, she threw her cup across the kitchen floor. I told her she could leave Dad. I told her she should just leave. She only laughed and said, 'No. It will be like the other times. He will come back, sorry and repentant. Then he'll be fine for the next few years. Maybe this will be the last time. I love him... we love him too much.' After she said that, she smiled and winked at me and said, 'Don't worry. Everything is going to be fine.' Why did she say that? Why? She went to her bedroom for a lie down, and I started my homework. That's when you came home and begged me to take you to Emma's... told me that you were supposed to stay the night with her. Mum seemed okay. I thought she was okay.

"After I dropped you off, I went to Cindy's. I shouldn't have gone there. I don't know why I did. I should have just come home. She'd be alive if I had! God! She'd be alive!"

Lisa grabbed Sarah's hand and pulled it into her lap.

Sarah's voice trembled as she continued. "I was gone an hour, an hour and a half maybe. I don't know. I came home. I thought she was just in the bathroom. I thought she was taking a bath. I finally knocked. She didn't answer. I got a knife to pry the lock open. It was the old paring knife, the one with the yellow handle, the one that's already got a bent tip, so I knew she wouldn't mind if I used that one. I knew that one would be okay. She wouldn't get mad. That's why I used that one."

Lisa nestled her head in Sarah's bosom and spoke as one would to a bewildered puppy. "It's okay. It's okay. We know enough. We know you did everything you could."

"There she was. There was blood everywhere. Everywhere! Both wrists. She cut both wrists, Lisa. Why? Why did she do that? And an empty bottle of pills, her goddamn valium. The bottle was floating in the toilet. Why would she want to die? Why did she do that to us? I hate her. I hate for that. She had no right to leave us. Doesn't she know what she's done? Doesn't she know?"

"No she doesn't. And I don't want her to know," Lisa said defiantly. Then she choked with sobs. "I should have stayed home. It's my fault, Sarah. _I_ should have stayed home. _I_ shouldn't have made you take me to Emma's house."

"It's not your fault, Lisa. I should never have left. I knew she was upset, and I left anyway. I have to live with that."

Chad spoke with controlled irritation. "It's your dad. It is your dad who did what he did. He treated your mom like shit. He created this. How can either of you blame yourself when he—"

Both Lisa's and Sarah's eyes pierced Chad with looks of disgust, almost hatred. He did not understand their censorship. They needed to blame the guilty one, not wallow in self-imposed guilt and blame someone who was not here.

Sarah spoke with anger, "Mom knew what Dad was like. She knew, and she chose to put up with it. She could have left him ages ago, years ago."

Lisa added. "She put up with it before. She didn't have to kill herself over it this time."

Chad did not say anything more. He simply listened. However, he remained puzzled as to how they could defend such a father and husband. He concluded it was due to the reality that Johan was now the only parent they had. That thought triggered a sense of dread deep in his gut.
CHAPTER 36

Until Death Do Us Part

What do you say at the funeral of someone who takes their own life? How do you comfort those dealing with such a cruel, definitive act of desperation, if not defiance? How do you celebrate the life of one so desperate, so sad, so angry, so hopeless?

Peter hated that Johan had asked him to speak at the funeral, but he did not have the courage to say no. For four days, he pondered what to say and how to say it.

He looked for solace in his own soul and found none; he had no comfort to offer a grieving congregation, no words to console this family he loved so much. _Why did they ask me? Why not Chad? Why not Simon? Why did she kill herself?_

"Susan. She was one of the first persons I met when I came to South Africa last September. I came not knowing what I was doing in this foreign land. I arrived here scared, wondering if I'd made a foolish mistake. It was Susan who welcomed me. She greeted me with a quick peck on the cheek." Peter glanced up. "That friendly kiss shocked me. We don't do that in America ... not ever." He looked back at his notes and continued. "It was Susan's greeting that told me I was in the right place. It was her encouragement, her concern, her belief in me that helped me feel so much at home here. For her love and her caring heart, I will be forever grateful." Peter paused, he surveyed the crowd of mourners. He saw tearful faces, bewildered faces, and angry faces. He went back to his notes.

"Susan was a wonderful mother, a devoted wife, a sure friend..." He stopped. He felt awkward, embarrassed. Then a tinge of anxiety grabbed his gut; he imagined himself bursting into tears and running out the back passage of the church. After filling his lungs with air, he looked again at the sea of faces – faces full of questions, full of pain. He crumpled his notes. "Susan was just... she was at times one of the happiest women I have ever met, but at other times, she was one of the saddest people I've known. I don't understand the demons she spent her adult life warring against. I don't understand that. I wish I could. But one thing I do know is that she is angry with herself for... for what she did. I know she regrets it with her entire soul and spirit. I know she would do anything possible to take back that awful moment. But she cannot. And we cannot. I want to be angry with her because I miss her. I know you feel the same."

Peter then looked at her three survivors. "I know I can't understand how you all feel. But don't be angry – angry with your mom, your wife. Don't be angry with yourselves. She would not want that. Forgive her and forgive yourselves. And... well, live in the light of all the wonderful and glorious days you had with her. Live in the light of all the love and goodness she brought to your lives. Live in the light of all that her beautiful, yet pained life has given you. She deserves that. As her husband and her daughters who loved her, you deserve that. That is what she wants for you."

When Peter sat down, he avoided looking at the black attired congregation. He was sure he had made a fool of himself. He was not even sure what had come out of his mouth. He did not want to know. Whatever it was, he was sure he had brought no comfort. _I just hope I didn't make things worse_ , he thought.

***

They stood watching the never-ending line of grievers greet Johan and his daughters, all with the grimaced smile that funerals require. Chad leaned over and whispered to Peter, "Good job. That was good."

"Yeah, right."

"No, it was just right, Peter. It was. You surprised me."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment." Peter had caught Cindy's eye after she had given Sarah and Lisa prolonged hugs. "Hey, I gotta go."

Peter approached Cindy and stood silently in front of her. Everything he thought about saying was ridiculously inappropriate. Cindy finally took the initiative. "This is so hard. I still can't believe it, and I don't think I ever well. You did fine... you did ... well, it was good."

"I had no idea what I was saying up there, and I'm sure it was lame. What can you say when something like this happens?"

"No, it was very good, Peter. I appreciated what you said, and Sarah did too. She was surprised."

_Damn! That word again?_ "So you really go to Rhodesia tomorrow?"

Cindy nodded.

"How long? How long will you be there?"

"Six weeks, probably more, depending on how much my aunt needs me."

"Cindy, I wish we had had some time together. I miss you. I'm so sorry I was such an ass. I... I, um..."

"I missed you, too, but it's for the best, right?"

"I don't think so, but I didn't have a choice." Peter looked at her green eyes, wearied by tears. His eyes rested on her red hair; he wanted to touch it, feel it. He longed to embrace her. "I need you, Cindy. God, I miss you. "

"You need me, but you couldn't love me. It has been for the best, Peter. You'll be in the States before I get back, so we better say goodbye now." Cindy leaned over, kissed Peter on the cheek, and then gave a hesitant embrace.

Peter wanted that embrace to linger. He began to tighten his grip around her body, and she stepped back. He caught her hand and held it. "I'm so sorry. I was so wrong. I never wanted to—"

She pulled her hand away.

Peter continued, "I hope it goes well in Rhodesia. I still don't think you should go. I really don't. It's just not safe there, and—"

"It will be great, and I'll be fine. Goodbye, Peter. Have a safe trip home." Then she turned and walked away.

Peter watched his best friend walk out of his life. Anger churned inside his gut. He was furious that he could not give her what she needed and incensed that he had been so afraid to let himself love her. Now it was too late.
CHAPTER 37

Tensions At Home

With Themba gone for the weekend, dirty dishes sat on the table, and encrusted pot and pans waited in the kitchen. Simon brought in his cat-shaped teapot with brewing tea, along with some cheese and crackers. "It's time we talk."

Peter rolled his eyes and Chad shrugged his shoulders. Both squirmed in their chairs like schoolboys sitting outside the principal's office.

The atmosphere in Simon's home had been somber since Susan's death three weeks earlier. Indeed, the events of 1977 had been so traumatic, so overwhelming, that each had felt their heads and hearts were in danger of spinning out of control. As well, Peter and Chad had long been dreading the day another summons to Pretoria would arrive and announce, "Your applications have been denied. You are to leave immediately."

Simon took a sip of tea. "It is time we talked... about Susan. Her death has been a blow to us all, but I believe it both helpful and necessary to talk of such things, to give our emotions words."

Chad said, "Simon, no. Not now." He shook his head, took a breath, leaned back in his chair, and spoke with a pensive tone, "You know what I don't understand? How can a person kill themselves? I mean, how can somebody get to the point where they're so miserable they just want to give up and die? How could Susan do that? Simon, tell me. Make sense of it for me."

"I can tell you," Peter began, as Simon was still gathering his thoughts. "We've all been depressed, down, or felt sorry for ourselves. Everyone gets fed up and overwhelmed at times. You know, when you felt so sad you could hardly stand it. That's just part of being human. But, for some, it's just worse, a lot worse."

"But why?" Chad prodded.

"When you get – I don't know – real depression, like clinical depression, it's different. That's a depth of depression people just don't understand. You can't, unless you've been through it. It's evil, inhumane. It haunts you, taunts you day and night, telling you that everything is wrong and you're worthless, and everything is hopeless. You can't shake something like that off. And if you haven't experienced it – well, you can't understand. You just can't. I have been through it – a few times. It's like falling down an endless abyss – a black, hopeless hole. You're in this abyss and you begin to think, you... you begin to believe, believe that you'll never get out. In that blackness, that nothingness, death seems like the only friend – the only thing that offers peace. Death whispers, convincingly whispers, 'I can give you peace, escape. Everything will be fine.' In the depth of the abyss, death becomes your savior – your only way out.

"Then... then there is a moment, a fleeting moment when you don't think of anything or anyone. You stop thinking about how it will affect anybody else. In that moment, you know you have to escape. Most of the time, you can get through it. You keep telling yourself 'this will end, this will end.' But if you stop telling yourself – that it _will_ end – you give in. You believe the lie that death is your savior. Then, too many pills are swallowed, wrists cut too deep, the gun goes off. Susan had that moment. Death told her he would save her, and she listened. She believed him, and now she's gone."

"It still makes no sense," Chad said. "It can never make sense."

"It won't make sense to you, Chad. Unless you have been there, it will never make sense. I've been close enough, and I would not wish it on anyone."

"You ever been there, Simon?" Chad asked.

"No, Chad, I have not. When was that moment for you, Peter?"

"At a Motel 6 in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was a Monday, March 18, 1974, at two thirty-four a.m." Peter stood and walked toward the kitchen and said, "Those dishes want washing."

As Simon refilled his and Chad's mugs with slightly stewed tea, he asked, "Chad, what about Sarah? How is she holding up? How are things between you two?"

Chad's words came out slowly; he feared his frustration would surface. "She's a different person these days. She's just not there when I'm with her." Both hands cupped around his mug, he took a sip and sighed. "I'm losing her, Simon."

"It has only been two weeks since the funeral, Chad. You must give her time." Simon spoke as a father offering advice.

"I know that. It's... it's the obsession I'm worried about."

"Obsession? With what?"

"She is completely obsessed with her dad and Lisa. She is so focused on them. It's as if she's taken Susan's place. That's what she's done."

"This is to be expected. Without Susan there now, she will naturally step into her mother's role. You cannot demand she remove herself from that role. Chad, you are going to have to be so very patient with her."

Chad shook his head as his words spewed out quickly. "How can I be patient? I don't have time to be patient. Any day we'll have to leave, and Sarah and I are going backwards. You know, I hate to say it; I shouldn't say it – but I am so goddamn mad at Susan. I would kill her myself if she was here. She might have taken her own life, but she ruined Sarah's and mine in the process. It was selfish and ridiculous of her to do that."

"Sarah doesn't need your anger. She needs your understanding. You will indeed lose her if you cannot show patience and understanding."

Chad rolled his eyes and then drank the last sip of his tea; he spit out a mouthful of tea leaves into his mug. "Yeah, right. Whatever."

Simon continued, "Chad, you know well the dynamic in this family. You understand what you are dealing with. If you cannot be patient... well, you must carefully consider what lies ahead in this relationship – if there remains a relationship."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Peter returned with a fresh pot of tea. "It means there is significant craziness in the family that you will never fix. You must like the drama because you certainly have invested yourself in becoming a part of it."

"Screw you, Peter. You've spent your whole life avoiding anything. That's why you drove Cindy away. That's why she's gone off to Rhodesia. You couldn't see – no, you _refused_ to see – that she was the best thing that ever happened in your life. You had it for the taking, and you were too scared to let her love you, too scared to admit you loved her. Tell me I'm wrong."

Peter replied, "You're full of it. What do you know about relationships? You've been just as afraid of them as I have, albeit in your own perverted way. And yeah, you're right. I know. I was hurt in a relationship and shut off all emotion and cut myself off from everything and everyone. I didn't want to get hurt again. You are freak'n right. I wish I could fix it, but it's way too late now. She's booted me out of her heart and mind. I'm as good as dead to her now."

Simon cleared his throat and looked at the pair with a quizzical expression. His friends responded with scornful stares. He threw his hands in the air and said, "I believe your parents are going to be truly irate with me for bringing you two here. I thought it would expand your horizons and instill some direction in your lives, but now you're going to return home hopelessly forlorn and crushed by lost loves. You two are like two schoolboys trying to figure out what love is." Simon smiled.

Peter and Chad knew that smile well; it was the one he used to keep an atmosphere buoyant while making a vital point he expected others to consider carefully.

"So what is love, Dr. Simon? Eh? I don't see how you're an expert on it. What the hell is love?" Chad asked with a cheeky glint in his eye and a subtle grin.

"It is not infatuation. It is not about sappy feelings and hormones running wild. In the Bible, love is never an emotion – it is always action. To love is not to feel, it is to act. Chemistry? Okay, that will come and go, and I suppose it is chemistry and hormones that may get things started, but that is not love if it does not lead to commitment. Chad, love is commitment displayed in acts of self-sacrifice. That is my definition of love. Are you willing to make a commitment to another individual and do whatever it takes to fulfill that commitment? That is the question. And commitment always requires great risk. Peter, you need to act like a man and dare to take some risks. And dear Chad, you need to add some common sense to your risk taking."

Peter and Chad looked at Simon now with amused smiles.

Chad said, "Simon, you are so often full of shit – wonderful, sexy, enticing, and sweet smelling, but it is still manure, and we have to call it what it is."

Peter and Chad said in unison. "Bullllshhhitt!"

The three laughed. They realized it had been months since they had relaxed together and been free enough to laugh with one another.

Chad lifted his cup of tea. As the three cups clanged together, he said, "Here's to love – crazy, insane love."

Simon held his cup for a second toast and said " _Ja_ , here's to commitment."

Peter laughed and offered a third toast. "Here's to bullshit ... and to two would-be lovers, afraid of commitment and risk." Peter's smile faded, and tears welled up as he added, "And here's to the love I lost."

***

Chad and Sarah were wrapped in a duvet in the back garden late in the night. "Just like old times," Chad whispered.

Sarah stiffened. She pulled her head away from his and buried herself in the duvet. "Don't say that. I can't help it. God, it's been too hard. I'm sorry, Chad. I'm sorry I haven't been there for you. I know I haven't."

"I wanted to be here for you, Sarah. I want to be here for you, but I don't know how. Tell me how, Sarah. Tell me what I am supposed to do."

"But that's just it. There is nothing you can do. You can't do anything for me, and I can't do anything for you."

"What do you mean?"

Sarah entwined her fingers with his but then suddenly pulled her hand away. "I have nothing to give you, Chad. I can't keep trying to make it work. I can't keep things going with us – at least not right now anyway. I cannot love you as I should, and... and keep my family together. I have to keep them sane – keep them alive."

"That's not true. You know it's not."

"It is true, and _you_ know it. Chad, I can't change what happened, but I have to fix what I can."

"You don't have to fix anything. I'm sorry, but what happened, happened. It's awful, but you have to live your own life, Sarah. That's what your mom would want. You know that is what she would want the most. She'd want you to – "

Sarah covered his mouth with her hand. " _She_ would tell me to do whatever I can to keep this family together. Look at Lisa. She's hardly spoken since Mom ... since Mom died. She's acting like an eight-year-old, like she's going backwards emotionally. And then there's Dad. He hasn't even gone been back to work yet. He's dying to take a drink. He's on the edge, one drink away from destroying his and our lives. If I weren't here, Lisa would be picking him up off the curb. I _know_ what my mother wants. Don't try to tell me what my dead mother wants."

Chad put both arms around her and said nothing more.

"Have you heard any more about your permit?" Sarah asked. "It ran out ages ago."

"We're still waiting to hear about our appeals, but just like before, they'll just call us to Pretoria and tell us to leave."

"What then? What then?"

"I'm not going to think about it."
CHAPTER 38

Massacre

Peter had just finished helping Themba clean up after breakfast when Simon called. "Turn on the radio to the BBC World Service." Simon's voice was unusually emotional.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Just do it. I'll try to come home early."

Themba responded to Peter's puzzled expression. "What is this?"

"I don't know. Where's the radio?"

The archaic, lazy contraption could hardly pick up a signal. Peter walked around the entire house trying to find decent reception. He finally perched it on the windowsill in the kitchen, but even there, the signal continued to fade in and out. Peter and Themba leaned near the small radio, trying to decipher words behind the static.

"... _Indications are that there are several fatalities. We have no details of who or how many at this time... At this..."_

"My God! What's this about?" Peter asked.

The signal crackled for a few seconds, and then they heard, _"Early this... Orphanage near... that is in Northwestern... near the Moz... "_

Themba grimaced and spoke in a whisper, "This is terrible, Peter. But do not think... No, we know nothing more."

Peter took a quick breath, then shot his words out. "Damn! Mozambique. Near the Mozambique border. It can't be—"

"... _Church officials are... a group of seven to nine terrorists entered the compound at five a.m. They apparently took... we will have continued updates as reports continue to come in from the..."_

Peter felt nauseous; his stomach heaved and then constricted tightly. His breathing became painful, so he consciously slowed it, taking deep breaths, trying to force enough oxygen into his stiffened lungs. He called Chad, who was meeting with George at the church, and told them what he knew. He and Themba sat by the radio waiting for the next report. Peter cursed the old relic each time its signal cruelly faded into static.

"... _up to fourteen fatalities are being reported... workers... no repor... evidently...been... adults and.... It is believed... We will have updated reports at..."_

They waited for an hour before the next report came. The reluctant radio finally relayed further news. _"It has been confirmed that at the Bethel Mission, fifteen kilometers north of Umtali Rhodesia... or twelve missionaries were rounded up at five a.m. We know that the attack... seven armed... Again, officials have confirmed that no staff or mission workers have survived this... attackers... There are no indications that any children were harmed. We will inform the public of further details... This is the BBC World..."_

Peter's heart raced, and he could not breathe. He disappeared into the bedroom.

Chad and Simon returned home late that afternoon and joined Themba, who continued to hover over the radio. Peter ignored several invitations to join them, declaring resolutely that he needed time alone. The three worked together, trying to decipher the garbled reports. By early evening, all known details had been being reported.

Seven terrorists had forced the twelve workers of the Bethel Mission Orphanage to the edge of the compound before the sun rose. While the children slept, the women were raped and the men were savagely beaten before each was systematically executed. The massacre ended just as the sun dawned on a new day.

The three listeners sat speechless. They did not want to believe the gory details could be true. They would not believe Cindy was one of the victims. Later reports continued to confirm the earlier reports.

" _No adults at the Bethel Mission have survived_."

Peter entered the kitchen as the latest report finished. He looked at his friends and knew he did not want to hear what they now knew to be the facts. Nevertheless, they had to tell him everything they knew. Peter wiped tears away as he stated he would go and see Alice, Cindy's mother, and her brother. He insisted he would walk.

***

Alice's red, puffy face maintained a determined, defiant aura. "This can't be true, dear Peter. I won't believe it is true! I will not believe this. James, turn the radio off. We have heard far too much. We don't need to hear any more."

Peter approached Alice. He held her as both fought to hold back tears.

She said, "It's good you came. I thought you would come. You are very special to her – more than you know."

"I told her not to go." Peter sat on the couch and stared at the floor as the words flowed out. He was completely detached from the emotion churning in his gut. "It is my fault she went. I know that. She wouldn't have gone if I hadn't been so... there's nothing I can say. You must hate me."

"Peter, I will not have that. I will not feel guilty, and I will not allow you to feel guilty. I will not! Do you understand? I will not hear such talk. It is nobody's fault." Alice paused and filled her lungs, and then she sobbed. "No, it is everybody's fault. It is everybody's fault."

James stood behind his mother and placed his hands on her shoulders. "She's not dead, Mum. We know that. She's not gone. She would never die like that."

Evening came. With reluctance, Alice switched on the television.

" _All earlier reports have been confirmed. Twelve mission workers have been brutally murdered by terrorists in the Bethel Mission Orphanage, fifteen kilometers southeast of Umtali and eight kilometers from the Mozambique border. Seven men and five women were lined up and shot one by one—"_

James turned the television off.

A forbidding, cruel silence shrouded the house. The inevitable was accepted. Tears came, and then anger was unleashed. They cursed the terrorists and the army for allowing it. They cursed the mission administrators for refusing to allow staff any weapons. They cursed themselves for letting her go. Peter silently cursed himself for destroying her life – and his own.

At midnight, Peter left as Alice and James desperately tried, yet again, to convince themselves that it just was not true and their Cindy was coming home. He knew she wasn't, even if they could not admit it.

Peter went home wishing he was dead, demanding that it was him and not Cindy. Dazed and numb, he walked home, praying he could have had a second chance. He arrived home certain that no one else would, or could, ever love him as purely and completely, as wonderfully as Cindy had loved him. He had lost his best friend, the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wrapped himself in a thick duvet and fell asleep under the stars of southern Africa.

***

After Peter had left to go to Cindy's house, Chad borrowed the Cortina and drove to Sarah's home. On the front step, he waited, assuming she would come home early from college. Her best friend had been murdered – another blow to her already dangerously fragile psyche. The unsustainable grief that was already devouring her mind, body, and soul would be multiplied. He feared this would destroy the last vestige of her sanity.

She came home an hour early. Her enchanting brown eyes were bloodshot, stinging from too many tears. As they embraced, a cold, frightful hell engulfed them. She whispered in his right ear, "Tell me it's not true, Chad. Tell me it's an evil deception, a lie, a horrible dream we will wake up from and shake off. Tell me Mum is inside waiting for me to come home and is going to remind me to straighten my bedroom. Tell me Cindy's home getting ready to go to work at Jackson's. Ask me to go with you and Peter to meet her there tonight and get some free pizza. Tell me the nightmares will end."

Chad held her as close to his heart as he could.
CHAPTER 39

Resurrection

Peter's entire body jolted when the phone rang at six thirty a.m. He pretended to be asleep and let Simon answer.

"Peter, phone!"

Peter ignored Simon's summons.

He called out again, "Peter!"

Peter took the receiver and mumbled, "Yeah?" He listened without saying a word, then placed the receiver down and stared into space. After a few moments, with no emotion, he said, "Simon, can you take me to Cindy's on your way to work?"

"Pleasure. What's going on?"

"Don't know. They just said I have to come. It can't be good."

When Peter came through the door, Alice burst into tears. He noticed a strange, if not off-putting grin as she came toward him. The grin turned into a wide smile, which gave way to boisterous laughter.

Cindy's mother seemed to be displaying signs of a nervous breakdown. Peter wondered how he should respond and what he should do.

Before he could react, James rushed over and gave him an embrace. Working to control his laughter, James said, "It's Cindy! She called. They are flying her in from Salisbury. She'll be here at ten."

"What? What did you say? They're flying the body back _today_?"

Alice's response began as a whisper and ended in a declaration. "No, Peter. She's alive. She will be here at ten. She's okay. She's coming home! She is alive!"

Tears of disbelief, relief, and praise flooded the room as the sunrays broke through the front window and reflected off the large mirror over the fireplace, transforming the room into a humble cathedral of joy.

Alice composed herself and said, "Come with us to the airport. We want you to come."

Peter shook his head. "Oh no, I couldn't. Thank you, but she doesn't want to see me, I'm sure. Y'all go. It's your time, your special moment. I'd... I would spoil it for her."

Alice insisted. "Nonsense! We want you to come."

"I really don't think I should."

Alice demanded, "You will be there. You are very special to her, and you are going with us."

They immediately left for Jan Smuts Airport – all three of them.

***

Reporters scrambled to their places, brandishing cameras and microphones. News had trickled down from church headquarters, and the sensation-seeking vultures were anxious to capture the moment the lone surviving adult from the Bethel Mission Orphanage massacre was reunited with her family.

The roar of jet engines shook the bodies of those watching from behind a flimsy wire fence. Passengers disembarked the modest plane and walked carefully down the narrow, steep, unsteady metal stairs leading to the tarmac. They followed a thick yellow line leading them to their reunions with loved ones. Cindy was the last one to get off.

Peter stood and watched a mother welcome her child back from the dead. A million words and pictures could not have captured such a moment. Peter hid tears as he thanked God that impossible prayers had been honored.

Oblivious to the world's attention, Cindy embraced her family. Peter stepped back; he knew he should not be there.

After several moments, Alice held Cindy at arm's length and examined her from head to toe, assuring herself that this was, indeed, her child and checking that no damage had been inflicted. She then nodded toward Peter. His stomach churned.

As she walked toward him, he prepared himself for her disdain, for a demand to know what the hell he was doing there. That was what he deserved. He did not deserve to share in such a joyous reunion, a moment of complete relief and tainted joy.

The roar of another plane landing dismissed the rest of the world as Cindy approached Peter. He saw a glint in her green eyes: a slight, wonderful, healing glimmer of hope. She embraced him.

Peter whispered in her ear, "I'm so dead without you."

Cindy looked him in the eyes, nodded. "I know." And then she kissed him on the lips.

The church officials who had accompanied Cindy protected her from the media's demand for questions and insistence for indulgent photographs. They whisked the family away, allowing them to escape the world's intrusion and share this miracle in private – a miracle that would forever be overshadowed by the horror of unbelievable inhumanity and the senseless loss of individuals she loved, respected, and desired to imitate.

***

Peter stayed with them that night. Alice and James, exhausted by the rampage of emotions, enjoyed their first night's sleep in two days. Cindy and Peter cuddled on the couch. She wanted him to hold her tight, lest the demons come to tear her apart. She whispered in his ear all the night through, "In the quiet, I hear the sounds of death. I hear the dying scream, the devil rejoicing. I hear angels weep. Don't leave. Hold me all night, Peter. Hold me forever."
CHAPTER 40

Horror Spoken

Each day started and ended quicker than the one before; they knew their days in Africa would soon be over. With each successive day, Chad felt Sarah slipping further away. He kept trying, kept loving, kept being there. However, each day, her ability to receive and give love seemed to fade a bit more. This one he loved so madly and utterly, this one Destiny had given to him was drifting out of his reach.

One evening, Chad and Sarah sat on the couch after her father and sister had gone to bed. With both arms around her, Chad said, "The letter from Pretoria came today."

She said nothing.

"Three weeks. We have three weeks. We booked our tickets today."

Sarah still made no response.

He spoke again, "I can't bear it. I can't leave you. I don't know what we're going to do."

Sarah's lips quivered slightly, and she turned her head away.

Chad pleaded, "Come with me, Sarah. Come to America. Just for a while. You need to get away from this. You need to start moving on. Come with me! Not forever ... just a few months. Then we could come back, maybe even come back married."

"Stop! Don't be stupid. That's crazy. You are crazy," Sarah said as she examined Chad's eyes. "Are you serious?"

"I am. Your dad's doing okay... he is. He can take care of your sister. I think you need to get away. We need to focus on us." Chad knew he was not only fighting for her future, but for their future together. "Maybe it is a wild idea, but coming to South Africa was wild. Your dad, _your mom_ , wants you to get on with your life, and I'm part of that. I believe it with all my heart. I know it's been impossible the last few months. It has been hard... terrible. I know I can't understand what you've been going through, but I know you will get through this, Sarah. I want to be with you to help you. We need to look forward and build on what we had... no, what we still have. Come to America."

"You're crazy! You are. I could never get a visa in three weeks anyway."

"We could go and get married tomorrow. Then they would have to let you in the States, even if you're South African."

"Well, _then_ _you_ could stay here, couldn't you? If we got married, then you can stay here."

"Is that a yes?"

"No! Don't push me, Chad. I love you, but not as much as I need to and desperately want to. I don't love you enough – not right now. I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you. That's bullshit. You love me plenty enough."

"Please. I just don't. I can't. You just don't want to believe that." Without pausing, she slid away from him and in a different demeanor altogether asked, "What will you do when you go back to the States?"

Chad winced and felt his face begin to burn. She was withdrawing again. He reigned in his emotions and in a monotone responded, "Go back to uni, back to OU. I have to finish my degree."

"So you weren't serious." Sarah grabbed his shoulders. She pushed him down against the arm of the couch. "You're going back to _her,_ aren't you? I hate her. What's her name? No, don't tell me. You said it... that you've always gone back to her. Isn't that what you said? You'll disappear and leave South Africa and me behind, and you'll go back to her, your _dear_ Natalie."

Chad wrestled her to the floor and kissed her. "That was a different time, a different world, a world I don't want to go back to. Just tell me you'll marry me. Marry me, Sarah."

Sarah sat up, looked out the front window, and said, "Will you come back?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I don't know."

Chad stood up abruptly and walked toward the kitchen. "I'm going to fix some tea. I guess you can give me your answer when you know."

***

Peter and Cindy lay on their backs wrapped up in blankets. They gazed at the stars in the cool of a young winter's night. Cindy took his hand and with it pointed to the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere. "Mensa, Volans, Carina, Musca ..." She pointed slightly more to the north. "And there? Which one is that?"

Peter answered, "Crux, the Southern Cross, of course." He looked at Cindy. The moonlight revealed a tear beginning to trickle down her left cheek. He leaned closer and kissed the tear.

She stated in a hushed, but determined tone, "We can't throw them away. They are the future of Rhodesia, of Africa."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked with care. This was the first time Cindy had mentioned Rhodesia since the day she returned. He had encouraged her to speak about it three times in the past month, and each time she had put her hands on her ears and told him not to ask.

Now, she was ready to tell her story. They both sat up. She put her head on his shoulder and began, "It's the kids, Peter. It's the children that matter. Savannah, you'd love her, she's so adorable. She has this cheeky, sly smirk and these bulging brown eyes that melt your heart. She'd just come to the orphanage with her brother, Benjamin – Benji. Their parents had been killed in their village near the Zambezi border. Killed because they refused to give the terrs a few chickens. Savannah, she just turned four, and her brother is nearly three. They were together crying in her bed. I went and lay down with them and sang to them. Half the night we sang children's songs and lullabies like ' _VaChapungu_ '... um, in English that's 'The Eagle Is Proud' and 'Maidei Don't Cry' and ' _E-wu-u-wu-hwe-e_ ' that's 'Lovely Lullaby,' the most sung lullaby in Rhodesia. We sang until we all fell asleep.

"It was about four o'clock, I guess, maybe closer to five. I heard them... those voices – cruel, hate-filled voices, giving orders, barking like rabid dogs, like soulless, crazed monsters. I lay in bed, listening. I didn't know what to do. I should have done something. I should have screamed. I should have saved them."

Cindy shook her head, pulled her legs up to her chest, and put her arms around her knees. "They started laughing, barking out commands. Then things became quiet. It was eerie – an ugly silence. I peeked out the window. About twenty meters from me, near the children's playground, under the Jacaranda trees, I could see them, pointing rifles at each man's head. Then I saw the women. They were taking turns with the women, ripping off their nighties. Those animals pulling down their trousers ... taking turns. Gloria, Samantha, and Lucy! Lucy was the same age as me, Peter – the same age! And Aunt Jenny. They raped them and left them naked. Demons defiling these saints. Saints caring for Africa's children. Taking turns. Defiling them. Why, Peter? Why?"

Cindy stopped. Peter said, "You don't need to talk about this. It's okay."

Cindy shook her head slightly and continued. "One walked up and down the row of women. He clapped as those men raped my... my... And then he looked over toward me. His eyes showed delight. He smiled and stuck a cigar in his mouth. I think he saw me. I don't know. He just looked away and started clapping again. I thought he was going to come for me, Peter. Maybe he didn't see me, but I will never forget that look, that man. He wore a green and yellow bandana on his head. He walked with a limp, barking out his orders in English, refined English. I thought he would come and get me. But he didn't. He didn't come. He should have. Why didn't he?"

Peter's arms began to tremble. "Cindy, that's him! That's Kebo. God! He looked at me and smiled at me with that same evil grin when he tossed me that bandana. I hate him! He still invades my dreams. I don't want him to haunt you too. Kebo! His mercy is as cruel as his hatred. His benign acts of kindness are as bad as the evil he flaunts around as if he's some kind of god. Oh, he saw you. That horrible grin said he chose to spare you. It's his declaration that he has the power to kill or save. That's what he does, he plays god. "

They sat in silence for a few moments. There were no words to console one another. Cindy wiped the residue of her tears away and continued with her narrative. "The children started to stir. I kept telling them, 'We'll sleep late today. Go back to sleep.' I told them, 'Everything is fine.' They started to ask, 'What's that noise?' and I told them it was nothing. I didn't want to frighten them.

"Then, Peter, there were faint voices. I stood beside the window. I could barely hear it, but they were praying quiet prayers. They prayed, 'Forgive them, forgive them. Show them your love.' Then there was a _pop_ , like an obnoxious firecracker. Then another. The prayers got fainter. Then another _pop_ and another _pop... pop... pop... pop_. After the twelfth _pop,_ the last faint prayer ended. The animals laughed. They shouted with joy. Then they left.

"I took the children to the back of the building, to the kitchen, and I fixed breakfast for them. We stayed in the kitchen. 'What's wrong? What's happened?' they kept asking. 'Nothing,' I lied. 'It will be fine.' I didn't know what to do. I lied to the children to protect them. I didn't let them see anything. I did not want them to see it.

"I tried to call someone, but the phones weren't working. They often don't. All I could do was wait and keep making up excuses. I prayed someone would come. We waited. We waited forever. Then a delivery van came. He got help. I never looked, Peter. I never saw them. I couldn't look at what they did to my friends, to my aunt."

Peter and Cindy sat motionless, staring up as the stars of the southern world glistened over them.

Cindy said, "I came home, and those reporters and TV people were all there, like I was some kind of hero or something. I should be dead, Peter. I should have died like the rest of them. I should have been one of them. I was a coward. Peter, they were... they are such special people. Why should they have to die like that? Why did I have to live?"

"You saved the children, Cindy. You protected them. That's why you lived. That's what your friends, your aunt, would have wanted, what they would have expected."

"I feel so guilty. I know I shouldn't, but I do." Cindy held out her hands, "Look, Peter. My hands keep trembling whenever I think about those terrorists, those monsters. I don't want them to keep terrorizing me, in my dreams, in my thoughts. I am going to make myself pray for them – like my friends, like my aunt did."

"I could never do that, Cindy. You don't have to do that. I don't even think it's right. I don't understand how your aunt or the others could do that."

"Because they wouldn't let evil have the last word."

"I'm sorry, but I pray they will burn in hell a million times over. How can you even want to pray for them?"

She looked at him with a serious smile and shrugged her shoulders. She pressed her lips together and said, " _Ubantu,_ Peter. _Ubantu_. Because I refuse to let them strip me of love, of hope – of my humanity. I will not let them make me a powerless victim. That is what they want. And, we must – and we can – -pray for them, Peter."

Her simplistic philosophy fed an undefined guilt lurking beneath his pretense of being _okay_. He still dealt with too many night terrors: vivid and nasty images that would come and threaten him. He did not understand how she could talk about hope and love.

Cindy wiped fresh tears from her cheeks. She put her head on Peter's chest and said, "It's the children, Peter. It's the children we need to worry about. We can't let them be victims. We can't turn our backs on them, because then the terrs win. They need to know we will not give up on them. They are the future of Rhodesia, the future of Africa."

Tears began to well up in Peter's eyes.

Cindy took his head with her hands, leaned over, and kissed him on the lips. She then nestled his head on her breast.

Peter held back more tears. He was thinking that she was much nobler in her soul and spirit than he would ever be _. She deserves much better than me_ , he thought. _I was so sure she was not good enough for me, that she was not worthy of my love. Surely, I am not worthy of her love._

"Three weeks then?" Cindy asked gently in his ear.

Peter said, "I know. I'll miss you." The words sounded trite as they came out. He was searching for words more emotive, more declaratory – nothing came out.

"Don't go back. Stay."

"I need to get my degree. I promised my parents I would. I have to go back. Then next year, maybe I could come back and see... I don't know. Cindy, God, I love you so much, but I just think... I feel I'm not... I don't know... not good enough for you. You need, you deserve someone so much better than I can ever be for you. It'd be selfish to pretend I could..."

"What are you trying to say, Peter McKnight? Don't you do that to me again. Don't you dare!"

"No. God, I want you with all heart, but I know—"

"Shut up! _Ag nee_ _man_! Don't you know how much I need you, love you? Don't do that to me. Why do you make it so complicated? You can go back to your Oklahoma and finish uni. I'll wait. I'll wait forever if I have to... or at least a year or two. It will be okay. We will make it work. Unless you're going to tell me were just _friends?_ "

"No, no, I want it to work, more than anything."

***

A week later, Peter met Cindy as she finished work at Jackson's. Peter noticed an odd expression on her face as she sat down in the booth and placed a plate with two pieces of pizzas in front of him. Peter tried to interpret the vague and slightly contorted smile; behind it seemed to be some hidden fear. "What's up?" he asked with his anxiety rising.

"You won't like it. I know you won't, but..." Cindy paused, looked away, and took a sip of her drink. The rhythm and the accompanying softness of her words caused Peter's chest to tighten and his stomach to turn over. It was the exact tone _she_ , Debbie Graham, had used on the phone when she told him she was pregnant and getting married. He closed his eyes and braced himself.

She went on. "I'm going to go back to Rhodesia, only for a while. After you leave."

With the blink of his eyelids, Peter's anxiety switched to anger. His neck stiffened as she continued.

"They need help there, someone the children know and trust. The kids... they need someone who can share their loss, their fear. I need to go and help out for a while."

Peter was beyond furious. It was the most ludicrous thing Peter had ever heard in his laborious twenty-two years. _How could she entertain such a thought? How dare she risk her life again when there was no need to do so?_ Controlling his rage, he slowly said, "How could you do that to me? Yeah, maybe a passing thought, but surely you have sense enough to dismiss such stupidity." His voice grew louder, and the words became terse. "No. You're not serious! You're not. I couldn't... NO! You can't do that. You could have died! You already cheated death once. It's stupid to risk it again. No way, Cindy. You're not going back to that place."

"That's what they want, Peter – for us to be afraid to live, afraid to do what we know is right. I want to go. I _need_ to go. It _will_ be okay. They're improving the security, and it's not likely to happen again."

Peter's rage and fear numbed him to the point where he could not open his mouth.

"I know you don't like the idea. God, I know, Peter, but it is something I need to do for a while. It's a way to bring some... I don't know, closure, to help heal the nightmares. Most of all, Peter, it's a way to help... help the children. I just need to be with them. I know you hate the idea. It is something I want to do. No, have to do. I'll be okay. It will be okay."

Peter nodded, stood up, and told Cindy he had to leave. They walked out together. Her decision was not mentioned the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER 41

The Last Rally

"I'm not going, Peter. You know that." Chad replied curtly to Peter's invitation to go to a rally on Saturday at the Temba Township in Bophuthatswana, a _Bantustan_ north of Pretoria. Sarah and Cindy were sitting with them at Jackson's – in the same booth where the four had first met together a lifetime ago.

Cindy leaned forward and said, "Come on. Dumisani and Roger are going to speak. It would be great fun."

Chad rolled his eyes and was about to change the subject when Peter jumped in, "This will be your last chance to experience Black South Africa. You owe it to yourself and to the country."

"Oh sure, but no thanks."

Sarah spoke, "Come with us, Chad. The four of us going together? That'd be _lekkar_." She grabbed his chin and pulled him toward her. "I want you to come."

Chad sighed, and then shook his head. "No! Please don't drag me there. Once was enough. I got the idea the first time, and I really don't want to spend a whole day doing that."

Sarah pulled his face toward her, looked into his eyes, and said, "For me?"

Chad groaned and hit his head on the table as Peter said, "Okay, okay. Here's what we'll do. We will flip a coin. Heads, you go. Tails, you stay ... and Sarah stays with you. Deal, Sarah?"

With no hesitancy, she said, "Sure. Do it."

Chad let out a prolonged moan and said, "Fine. Whatever. Just flip the damn coin."

Peter tossed the coin. They all watched it as it nearly hit the ceiling, came down with a _clank_ , bounced on the table three times, and teetered before falling to rest in front of Chad. Three people shouted, "Heads!"

***

A frenetic crowd more than 4,000 engulfed the four outsiders as they followed Dumisani and Roger to a crude wooden stage erected in the middle of the Temba Township soccer field. The event organizer escorted them to the far left side of the stage. Dumisani suggested the four stay near the side of the stage, assuring them they would have an excellent view of both the speakers and the crowd from that vantage point. Both he and Roger then went to take their places on the stage.

Chad stood with his arms folded, making sure he had a miserable look on his face so no one would approach him. Sarah stood beside him with her arms folded as well. Chad noticed an aura of trepidation etched on her face. He whispered, "What's the matter? Does the little Afrikaner girl feel a bit out of place?"

Sarah nodded. Cindy and Peter mingled further into the crowd, which quickly enveloped them. The throng buzzed with growing excitement and anticipation.

Roger spoke first; Dumisani was next. Then three other church leaders from various townships followed. The crowds responded to each speaker with shouts, chants, and _toyi-toyi_ , African protest dancing. With each successive speech, the passion of the crowd grew.

Chad noticed Peter dancing at the appropriate intervals He nudged Sarah and pointed. "How ridiculous does that White boy look trying to mimic those wild Africans?" Both laughed uncontrollably.

In their addresses, Roger and Dumisani lauded the growing protest across the country but called for restraint. Dumisani declared, "Civil unrest is not hatred condoned, and righteous protest is not a license for anarchy." Only polite applause met his admonishment.

Following speakers spoke with increasing defiance, with more anger. They demanded action, even revolt. They promised the end of apartheid if the youth continued to rise up and bring fear to the National Party. They promised there would be increasing anger from the government – an anger fed by the fear of what was coming, an anger that would result in intensified attempts to quell what could not and would not be stopped. "Be ready!" one speaker declared. "Be ready for increased hatred, for oppression to grow, and for the death toll to rise. And pray relentlessly for the day Nelson Mandela will be set free. Pray for Madiba's freedom!" That call incited the crowd.

The intensifying anger of each successive speaker unsettled Chad. He felt the speakers were fueled by the power of the people's emotions. The last speaker shocked Chad; fear mixed with anger began to churn in his inner being as the speaker declared, "We have no room for any Black who ignores our cause, who fails to respond to the call to revolution. We have no room for them! And for those Blacks who dare to collaborate with the racist government, those who dare to betray their people and their righteous struggle by collaborating with the police, let the wrath of our ancestors fall upon them!"

***

Sarah's Beetle followed behind Roger and Dumisani's car as they left the township. Three other cars, transporting the other speakers and their assistants, were ahead of Roger's car.

As the cars began to gain speed, Peter said, "So, Chad, what did you think? Amazing, isn't it?"

Chad replied carefully, repressing an increasing anger he himself did not fully understand. "You really don't want to know, Peter. Let's just not talk about it, okay?"

As Peter drew breath to speak, Cindy leaned toward him and whispered something into his ear. He did not speak. Suddenly, oscillating high-pitched sirens pierced their ears. Chad's heart jumped, and he blurted out, "What the hell is this?"

Before he could say another word, ten police cars engulfed the five-car caravan, forcing them all to pull over. Police officers surrounded each vehicle like killer bees homing in on their supposed enemy, each armed with a gun, a large baton, and pepper spray. In a swift movement of coordinated brute force, the occupants of all five vehicles were pulled out and simultaneously slammed onto the pavement. A dozen well-armed men spewed out orders and demands in Afrikaans. Peter later described it as coordinated hate-filled chaos.

The four had been on the pavement for a few seconds (although Chad would insist for the rest of his life that it was not less than ten minutes) when an officer walked over and shouted, " _Was die mense in die motor by die vergadering? Is hulle op reis saam met die ander individue_?"

A man with his foot on Peter's neck replied, " _Hulle was agter die ander motors_. We can't be sure, but we should—"

The officer bellowed, " _Laat die vier van hulle gaan. Aye_ , let them go."

The four policemen released them and walked away without saying a word. As they were getting into the Beetle, Peter started to speak, but Chad covered his friend's mouth with his hand and pushed him into the cramped backseat of the Beetle.

Peter shouted out just as the door shut, "Screw this! We can't let them treat the others like that!"

"There is nothing we can do! We'd all end up in jail!" his companions said, nearly in unison.

Peter hit the back of the front seat with both fists, jarring Chad. He shouted, "No! It's not right. Let them take us too. We should be there too!"

Chad snapped, "Are you out of your mind? Come on, Sarah. Just go! We can't help them, Peter! Sarah, drive!"

As they drove past the scene, they witnessed the beating of several Black men and one White man. Peter yelled, "Look at that! God! They're being manhandled, beaten, treated like thugs guilty of gruesome murders. And did you see that? Did you see the way they treated Roger? My God! They're thrashing him! He's getting the worst of it. How can we just drive away?" Peter paused and watched the scene through the back window as the diminutive car did its best to escape. "What did your Philip say, Sarah? What did he say? 'The only thing worse than a Kaffir is a Kaffir lover'? They're gonna beat the life out of Roger. I wish Philip was in front of me now so I could have the satisfaction of beating the crap out of his Boer ass again."

The two in the front seat laughed. Cindy took both of Peter's hands and said, "Calm down. We can't do anything now. There's no point. We have to calm down. Roger and Dumisani will be okay. They knew this could happen."

No one spoke for the next ten miles.

The silence was shattered when Chad exploded. "Why the hell did you drag us to that twisted communist rally? I've had all I can take of this shit – all this African bullshit. You can have your dream world, Peter, but don't drag me into it! Don't try to turn me into an idealist, dreaming of bullshit. You should let the country be what it is. Just let it be! Those people, those wild _toyi-toyi_ dancing Africans of yours, want to destroy it! They probably will. Why the hell do you want to be a part of that? Look what the bastards did to Mozambique, what they're doing to Rhodesia. They want to do the same thing here, destroy everything. Given the chance, they would kill us in a heartbeat, with a smile. You know that, and you dance around with them while they plan how to destroy South Africa, plan how to kill people. I'm sorry, Sarah, but there are things I just don't get about this place. Things I don't freakin' understand. But keep your bloody rallies to yourself, Peter! Goddamn you for bringing me out here. You can..." Chad stopped. He looked away and stared out the side window.

The others looked at each other with sad and bewildered expressions. Peter wanted to scream back at Chad. He felt extremely embarrassed for the two South Africans in the car and wanted to speak up for them, defend them, and rebuke his friend – only he knew there was no point. He looked out the window watching the flat, monotonous landscape of the Transvaal roll by. Cindy rested her head on Peter's shoulder and held his hand. He caressed her beautiful red hair with his other hand.

***

Chad left quickly after dinner that evening, leaving Simon and Peter sipping lukewarm coffee. Peter talked about Chad's impertinence in the car and how utterly inappropriate Chad had behaved and how he was greatly embarrassed by the tirade. After recounting the incident, he said, "I don't know what's going on with him. I really don't. I know he's stressed over Sarah, but that doesn't excuse that behavior. It was awful, Simon."

Simon nodded but did not reply.

Peter continued, "Maybe I shouldn't have coaxed him into going. I'd hoped it would be a... I don't even know. Maybe because I want him to see, feel, understand things differently. But he is so goddamn narrow-minded. He is so clear and simply intolerant."

Simon interjected, "Chad may well say you are the intolerant one."

"Simon, I think _you_ are the one saying I'm intolerant. Just say it if that is what you mean."

Simon smiled and raised his eyebrows.

Peter shook his head and then grabbed the top of his head with both hands. He replied in a subdued tone, "How is it intolerant to care, to want to see change, to believe something's important? I'm doing my damnedest to be tolerant."

"That's all very fine, and I applaud your passion, but intolerance – pushing your views and perceptions onto others without bothering to understand and respect their views could be interpreted as intolerance. Destroying a friendship because someone else does not share your passion and your view of the world – is that not being narrow-minded and intolerant? Chad needs you to appreciate him as he is, every bit as you wish him to appreciate who you are, and who you have become."

"If he can't appreciate me, why I should I worry about caring about him?"

" _Ay_ , Peter. Listen to yourself. It is such an attitude that makes the world a difficult place. Do what's right because it is right. Respect the other person because he is a human being, not because he gives you the respect you assume you deserve."

"More of your homespun South African bull, Simon?"

"I don't know. There is a good Zulu word, a wonderful concept, which says much the same."

"I know, Simon, I know. _Ubantu_. Ubantu. I ain't there yet."

"Neither am I, Peter. It is a quest."

"What about Chad? What can we do? How can we... I help him? Fix him?"

"We can't fix a heart that is breaking, and we can't stop it from breaking. We just have to be there to help gather the broken pieces. Peter, be patient and be tolerant with our friend."

"He sure makes that hard."

"Ohh? That is exactly what he says about you."

"Ouch."

***

Chad made a decisive and unequivocal decision: He would ask Sarah to marry him one last time. This time, it would be a proper, serious, life-changing proposal, on his knees. There would be no jokes, no games. He would insist that she move on with her life and make plans _now_ to come to America as his fiancée. One more time, he would try to save her from things she could not change. He walked defiantly to her home for the last time.

Chad stood on the curb, peering into Sarah's front window. Sarah stood in front of Lisa, shaking her index finger, holding up what looked to be homework papers. Obviously, Lisa had again failed to complete and turn in another homework assignment. Lisa, close to tears, refused to look at her sister. Johan sat in his worn chair, a cigarette in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. He waved his arm, commanding Sarah to shut up; the evening television broadcast was beginning. Sarah continued with her lecture, and Johan got up and left the room. He returned with another bottle of beer and turned the volume on the TV up.

Chad had a strong urge to turn away and walk back to Simon's house. A thought he did not expect, intruded: _I should leave this behind. I'll be flying home in a few days. I should just give it up and leave things as they are – just forget about this place and everything that's happened here_. This thought evoked sadness deep in his heart. He stood staring through the window for a few more moments, and then he turned around and began to walk back home.

As he took his second step, he glanced back at the window. He was struck by Sarah's silky, flowing brown hair and her perfect warm, lightly bronzed complexion; it all created a beauty so stunning, yet so innocent. He smiled as watched her flaunt that sassy approach to life and that fiery spirit that had so intrigued him and made her incredibly irresistible. This woman had enabled – no, unleashed – his love.

He knocked on the door, and they went for a long walk.

"I leave in six days," Chad said coyly.

"I'm not thinking about that. I don't want to." She paused, grasped his hand, and whispered, "It's too soon. I wish things could have been different."

"They still can be, Sarah." Chad stopped, grabbed her shoulders, and turned them square with his. "I want to marry you." He paused, then deliberately and slowly asked the question that at age seventeen he had solemnly sworn to himself to never utter: "Sarah, will you marry me?"

She held her breath and closed her eyes.

Chad went on. "We will do whatever it takes to work things out – whatever it takes. I want to go home knowing that you will be my wife. I'll come back in December, and then we can get married."

Sarah leaned over and kissed him – a long, passionate, surrendering kiss. "Everything in me wants to say yes, but... it just wouldn't be right. I love you so much; I just don't know if it is enough. I really don't think I love you enough for that, Chad. I'm so sorry."

"It's enough! You love me enough. You need to... _we_ need to look forward."

"I can't see past this week, Chad. I can't think about next month. I can't think about December or next year or the rest of my life. I can barely get through today, barely face what I have to do today. It takes all my energy to brace for tomorrow. That's all I can deal with. I can't, Chad. I am sorry. No, I can't marry you. Maybe if you ask me in six months ... but even then, I just don't know." She paused and turned away from him, "I know that's not fair to you, and I won't ask you to wait. Please don't wait on me, Chad. I can't promise anything right now."

Chad had prepared himself for this response, but he was still surprised when no tears came from his eyes. His emotions, his heart seemed to dissolve into nothingness. He spoke with a fading resolve, undetected by his lover. "I will wait. I will. Do what you have to do. I'll wait as long as I can. But know... know I will always love you."

"And I you, Chadwick Daley."

***

Four days after the event at Bophuthatswana, Roger was released from jail. He was exhausted and brandishing bruised ribs, a broken nose, and a split lip – he took pride in every cut, scratch, and bruise. The district judge had cursed him prolifically and warned emphatically against any further involvement in anti-government and communist activities. He had been banned from public appearances of any sort. "This means," the judge emphasized, "that you are no longer free to enter your pulpit. Should you choose to do so, you will be arrested. If it should be up to my court, you would be imprisoned for a very long time."

At Sunday service, Roger declared to his remaining congregation that he did not care what the judge or the courts had to say. "I answer to a higher authority than the blind dogs in Pretoria!" he proclaimed. It was an attitude his wife did not like, but she still unwaveringly supported him.

Roger expressed much more concern for his friend and colleague. He told Peter that Dumisani could be locked up for a few more weeks or many months before being shipped off to yet another township. There, he would likely be kept under house arrest and forgotten about by the government. "Someday," Roger said, "the National Party will begin its own house arrest in the confines of Hell."

CHAPTER 42

Homeward Bound

Three days before their SAA flight to America, Chad and Peter sat with Simon around the dinner table, savoring one of Themba's unforgettable cottage pies. In accord, the three dutifully lined up knives and forks on their respective plates and pushed them to the side. This was the last meal they would share together, perhaps forever. They nodded at one another, each with a smile reflecting sadness and gratitude.

Simon opened a second bottle of wine, and they began to relive the wild stories they would take home with them: a few stories they wished to forget, but none they would change.

With all tales exhausted, Chad leaned forward and declared, "I tell you this, Ole Bean, I will leave South Africa with an appreciation for much gained and so much lost. I will go home thankful for my friendship with you two – friendships that... well, we endured and we will endure. I am thankful for friendships that are strong enough to be able to forgive and to move on and... and to last forever."

Peter started to speak, "Chad, you know I'm sorry, sorry for—"

Chad interrupted, "Shut up, Pete. No apologies."

Peter smiled and nodded, then he shook his head and looked at Simon. "You remember that night when you said, 'Come to South Africa. _'_ That changed our lives. But Simon, why? Why did you ask us? Why that ridiculous invitation? _Ag_ _man_. If I had had any clue... Geez, I would have never embarked on this journey. Thank God I didn't know what I was in for! But why ever did you ask us?"

"I never dreamt you'd agree to come. I was probably feeling homesick and just wanted to dream about home."

"Bull!" Chad said. "That is not the kind of person you are."

Simon laughed. "Perhaps I saw two wandering souls that needed... wanted direction. Perhaps I was worried about two spirits wasting away."

"I think I'll take your first answer," Chad groaned, "but no regrets, Simon. No regrets."

Peter looked at Chad and tilted his head. "None? Not any? Are you sure?"

"No, Peter. Not one. Not even your God-awful expeditions to the forbidden townships."

Simon lifted up his glass of wine. "Time to move on, my dear friends. A toast to two dear brothers."

Chad winced at such sentimentality and then chuckled. "It's been a great, crazy ride, but, I'm ready... ready to go home." Chad pointed his index finger at Simon. "I love your country, Ole Bean, I really do. But it's your country, not mine." He raised his glass. "I truly thank you. Thank you for the opportunity of a lifetime. A toast to the wild ride of the past year and to a friend who, for no good reason, believed in me... in us! I wouldn't have missed it – _any_ of it – for the world. However, it's not home. Here's to home! This is a wild country, Simon. I love it, but it's not America. I'm ready to get back to a dull, predictable life."

"What about dear Sarah, Chad? What about our wonderful Sarah?" Simon asked.

Chad hesitated, rubbed both temples with his index fingers, and then with a quiet, solemn voice replied, "I'd whisk her home with me in a heartbeat. Oh, wouldn't we have a great life, an impossibly perfect, storybook life. I love her. She's taught me that love exists – that love is real. And boy, she's taught me love can and sure does hurt. But... well, Sarah is Sarah. I haven't given up, mind you, but now it's up to her. She's got to get things together. It breaks my heart. I can hardly stand it. But I'm going home, back to my life. If she wants to join me... I would marry her tomorrow, next year, whenever. Simon, you keep working on her. Get her fixed up and send that wonderful beauty out to me."

"I shall do my best, bru."

Chad wiped away a tear welling up in his left eye. "It is... what do they say? Bittersweet. It's goddamn bittersweet. But you know, I don't regret it. No, I don't regret a goddamn thing."

Simon turned to Peter. "And you, Peter? What say you?"

Peter pressed his lips together and filled his lungs with a slow breath, then said, "Here's the thing. I've decided I am not going home."

Chad laughed. "Nooo! You cannot be serious. What do you mean you're not going home? You can't stay – no more permit extensions for you, bru, and your visa's not even valid. Time's up, game's over, we got to go home."

"No. I'm going to Rhodesia with Cindy."

"Holy heavenly father! Are you crazy! You're out of your mind!" Chad declared.

Simon spoke slowly. "I believe he may be, Chad. I do think it is our responsibility to talk him out of it. Peter, are you serious?"

"Yes, and don't bother trying to convince me that I'm nuts. It's the right thing to do. I'll be damned to hell if I'll let Cindy go there without me. If she dies there, well, I'm going to die with her."

Chad nearly shouted, "Oh my God! The African sun has made our friend senseless, plain cracked out of his mind, Simon! Oh my God!"

Peter pointed his index finger at Chad. "Hey, you may have a bit of Africa in your blood, bru, but Africa's got a hold of my heart. I'm crazy for Cindy. I'm crazy for Africa, for the Africans. It's been a wild ride, and I'm not ready to get off yet. I don't know if I'll stay here the rest of my life or our lives. Maybe not, but it's the right place right now. I want to be part of this... this Africa. And Cindy and I are going to be in it together."

Simon shook his head in amazement. "And what does young Cindy think of you going to Rhodesia? And this getting married?"

"Um ... she doesn't know yet."

Chad laughed. "Which part? Rhodesia or the marrying bit?"

"Neither. She doesn't know either yet."

"Let's go, Simon. Let's go watch Peter ask her. I am dying to see this. He's so sure she'll say yes. She is a woman, you know, Peter? Come on. It's now or never. We'll help you propose."

"I'll handle it on my own, thanks."

"When?" Chad asked.

"After the last bottle of wine is empty. _Ja_ man, a toast to two dear friends – one I still don't understand. God bless you, Chadwick Daley. Believe it or not, you've taught me more than you know and more than I knew. And to Simon, the one who believed in me when I could not believe in myself and who was so patient with me! And... and to Cindy, my redheaded troll doll I learned to love, as much as I was determined not to. And here's to Africa, this blessed, wonderful Africa!"
CHAPTER 43

July 25, 1977

Chad arrived at JFK, anticipating his mother's bright, beaming face. Only his father's emotionless face waited as he walked out from customs into the terminal. He looked back and forth, trying to locate his mother. _She really isn't here_. A cocktail of anger mixed with dejection besieged him. He took a deep breath and briskly walked toward his father. Chad extended his right hand and muttered, "Hi."

Patrick ignored the outstretched hand. He grabbed Chad with a crushing embrace. As far as Chad could remember, it was the first time his father had ever given him an unsolicited hug.

"Mom? Where's Mom?" Chad asked briskly.

"I asked her to stay home, Chad. I wanted to spend some time with you first. Your mother agreed. She thought it would be appropriate... positive."

"Sure." Chad took several very slow breaths and forced his anger back down to its hiding place in the pit of his stomach. In dead silence, they walked down the endless airport walkways, collected his luggage, and headed toward the huge glass doors to exit the airport. A wave of hot air embraced them as the doors opened. Chad stood for a moment, took in the New York air, and listened for the sounds of the world's greatest city; America had welcomed him home.

They walked down a long row of oversized American cars, 'Yankee-tanks,' as Simon used to call them. When Patrick stopped at an unfamiliar car and unlocked the trunk, Chad remarked, "What's this? A Merc, no less. What happened to your addiction to Cadillacs?"

"Time for a change. Give Mercedes a try – give those Germans a chance to impress me."

"Didn't think you'd ever forgive them. You like it?"

Patrick lifted one side of his lip. "The jury is still out."

As they put their seatbelts on, Patrick glanced at his son. Chad felt that the look was an effort to peer into his heart, and it caused him to squirm. He felt like a twelve-year-old caught stealing candy hidden in the pantry. He looked the other way.

Patrick backed his new Mercedes out of its parking place and pointed it toward the parking lot exit. The car moved slowly forward. "A nice, smooth, proud hum, don't you think?"

Chad nodded.

Patrick sighed and offered a feeble smile, "There are some things I want... things I need to say." He paused, leaving an uncomfortable silence.

Chad glanced at his father's sharp blue eyes: so charming and enticing when his father wanted them to be, and so cold and superior all the other times. He did not care what his dad wanted those eyes to convey at that moment.

His father finally continued, "Do you remember when we used to go to the football games? Those Yale vs. Harvard games? Do you remember how old you were that first game we went to?"

"I don't know. I was four, maybe five. It was freezing, and I hated it. You pulled your big coat around me and started talking about when you played in the game in nineteen-whenever."

His dad laughed. Forty-seven, 1947 – the eight and a half minutes I played in the fourth quarter, the last game of my senior year. I'm still proud of that. Those were good times, going to the games with you. You caught on to the game quickly. Every year, you asked me when Harvard would be playing Yale. We looked forward to it."

"Yeah."

"Chad, that became one of the highlights of the year for me, sharing the experience of that game, that event, with you."

"Yeah."

"I miss those times we shared, the relationship, the bond we had."

Chad stared out the passenger window

His dad asked, "Do you remember the last time we went to that game together?"

"No," Chad said, though he remembered well. It was 1968. He had just turned thirteen. It was the year his dad had left a bruise on his face – three times. It was also the year his father made his first of three failed attempts to be elected to the state senate.

"It was 1968. You must remember that game. Harvard came back from twenty-two points down. It was the game when they scored two touchdowns in the last minute to tie Yale. Still a classic game for the ages. Surely you remember that game?"

Chad nodded and said, "Sure."

"That year, I got so busy. I'm sorry for that. I miss those times we had together." The car pulled onto the Nassau Expressway, accelerated smoothly and confidently joining lesser cars, embarrassed as the Mercedes glided effortlessly by. "Do you remember when you were eleven, and we were at Hilton Head? I had just taught you the butterfly. You were bobbing up and down across the water like a young and proud dolphin."

Chad looked over at his father, studying his face. _What does he want?_ _Why the hell doesn't he just shut up?_ _Damn him!_ He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes. "What's your point, Dad? Why are you going on about this?"

Patrick ignored the question. "Then you disappeared. You were gone. My life stood still. I thought I would die. I couldn't find you anywhere. You'd disappeared. Then I saw you, forty yards away, crying on the beach."

"Yeah. I remember. You screamed at me. You screamed, 'How could you do that to me?' Then you shook me."

"I thought I'd lost you. I was scared. I was angry... with myself. I'm so sorry I said that. I should have hugged you for a very long time and kept my mouth shut."

"Are you trying to soothe your conscience, Dad? I don't think there's any point. How is Mom? Really, why didn't she come?"

"Chad, the point is, we were close before that. We were father and son up until ... I don't know... when you turned twelve or thirteen. After that, you seemed to pull away."

"Screw this, Dad! You want me to apologize for being a teenager? Screw that! You're the one that pulled away, became an ass, and got too busy. You treated me like crap. What was I supposed to do?"

"I know, Chad." He paused, and tears welled up in his eyes. "I know that's true. I just... I didn't know how to be a father. Things were fine when you were a youngster. It was easy. Then ... well, things changed. I know they're supposed to change, but I couldn't change with it, with you. It was me, not knowing how to be a father, the father of a teenager. You're right. I did pull away. I wish to God, I wish..." His father stopped. Patrick glanced at Chad, who was staring out his window. "We have lost so many years, and I missed my chance to be a father. I failed you, Chad. I'm sorry those years are gone—"

"Yeah, forever."

"Forever. I can't change it, but I ask that you would forgive me."

Chad said nothing.

His father went on. "You are an adult now, and you can choose if you want me in your life or not. I expect you to choose, and I will respect your decision."

Chad remained silent.

"Now, I want to say two things, and then I'll stop blubbering. First, I am so very proud of you... so proud of what you have done with your life this past year. I could have never found the courage to do what you have done – to face the things you have. I am proud you are my son."

Chad watched the New York skyline fade into the distance and muttered, "Whatever."

"The other thing I want to say is that even though those years _are_ gone, I would like us to build something for the future. I want to be your father – not the father of a child, a teenager, but the father of a young man. I want to be here to listen, to love, to offer support, give advice – when you might ask for it. And... and I want to go with you to another Harvard-Yale game sometime, share that experience again as father and son enjoying life together. I will leave it at that."

"You rest your case, eh?"

Patrick nodded, smiled, and wiped a lone tear that had escaped and was trickling down his right cheek.

As they pulled into the driveway of his childhood home, Chad looked at his dad and said, "Maybe you could come to the Oklahoma-Texas game this year. That is a wild experience."

"I would very much like that. I would quite enjoy watching my son the cheerleader."

"No, we can sit together. I'm through with cheerleading. It's time to focus on bigger things than throwing girls around in the air."
EPILOGUE

April 23, 1978

Chad stuffed two letters in his back pocket. His pace quickened as he headed to The Library.

The Professor quickly interpreted his excitement as he burst through the door. "Is it that a letter has arrived?"

"Two."

"Well done, well done. I will leave you to read them. Bud or Coors today?"

"Bud, thanks. And, Professor you have one as well. I want you to... yes, to read the letters to me."

"Are you sure, Chadwick? Surely you'd prefer privacy."

"No. I want you to read them. I prefer to hear them."

"Very well. It shall be an honor. I believe the occasion calls for a glass of fine Chianti."

Chad retreated to the attic, and The Professor soon joined him with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. As he filled Chad's glass, he said, "Now, are you very sure you prefer that I—"

"Yes. I'd prefer you to read them."

"Very well then. So this one is from Peter. Very good...

Dear Chad,

We were sorry you couldn't make the wedding. What a way to start the New Year! It was simple, but special. Since you weren't here, I debated who to have as best man. Of course, I first thought Simon would do it, but as I thought more and discussed it with Cindy, we both felt more and more that Dumisani was the one we wanted. He is (as I think you know) restricted to yet another township in the north. He came in the trunk of Roger's car. To hell with apartheid, eh?

Chad groaned, and then chuckled. "Good God! Always having to make a statement. I think I preferred the apolitical Peter, back when he had no opinion about anything and certainly didn't have to prove anything."

"That is impressive and very nice indeed. I do like that. Yes, good for him."

"Go on."

He was quite pleased, I think. His family was at the wedding as well, a great treat for them, though I know they did feel out of place. But that is what we are fighting against, isn't it?

"Geez! Can't he just have a nice wedding without making a political statement? Glad I wasn't there. Go on then."

Unfortunately, many from the Vandy church refused to attend – most of them, in fact. But I understand their point of view. Roger preformed the ceremony, and Georg did help. I think he got a fair bit of flak for that. Simon gave a very special talk, which will stay with us. He spoke of his confidence our love would last and our marriage would bless others.

"I think I would have puked."

"Now, Chadwick. Do not be so supercilious. It sounds wonderful. Uh, let's see...

Sarah was, of course, beautiful as the maid of honor, truly lovely as you can imagine. She is doing well. I suppose you've heard from her. She said she would write you soon. She still writes often about you in the letters she sends to us. She finished her course and has a job as a legal assistant in a small law firm in Krugersdorp. She's still living with her dad and sister, though I believe she did leave for a while. She's talking about moving out again. She says she feels it's time.

Chad let out a pained sigh. "It's about time she moved on. What a foolish girl she is, Professor." Chad stared out the window and let out another prolonged sigh.

The Professor respected his pensive moment and waited.

"Oh hell. Go on."

We had a short honeymoon in Durban and camped out at Sadawna Bay – you remember, where the monkeys got into our tent and ate all our bread and broke all our eggs? That was a great trip, wasn't it? It was very hot this time, and quite honestly, we were both ready to leave the sea, sand and heat behind. We then went to Victoria Falls and had a great week there before returning to the orphanage. We stayed at that same place you and I stayed. At first, I was a really apprehensive, but I think I excised some demons, and it was quite all right. In fact, it was wonderful. I think the reality of being married has begun to sink in. We are getting past the initial is-this-really-what-I-want phase to the this-is-the-best-thing-that-ever-happened-to-us phase.

"My God! I don't think I can stand anymore."

"No, Chadwick. That is love. Be happy for them. Good for Peter. Let's see..."

As you know, we're back at Bethel Mission. We both thought it would be for another month or two when we went back, but it is great here. I love it. Our plan now is to stay another six months at least. Then we are hoping to return to the States for a while and spend some time with my family. Perhaps you'll still be around then?

The Professor stopped. He murmured inaudibly to himself and shook his head, then said, "My, my. Interesting. Chad, this is very... I am not sure..."

"Just get on with it. Nothing could be that bad," Chad insisted.

The Professor tilted his head and gave a look that questioned if he was sure he should carry on reading.

Chad nodded yes.

I must to tell you this story, and you have to tell me what you think. After our honeymoon, we'd been back at the orphanage for about a month. Three men drove up and got out of their car. They were dressed in white shirts with black ties. Two were White, and one Black. Cindy and I were with the children, tending to our veggie garden. They walked toward us with kind of corny smiles. I thought they were going to try to sell us something.

They got closer, and I realized the Black guy looked familiar, though I didn't know why. He looked at Cindy and gave a somewhat puzzled looked, then he looked at me. He tilted his head and smiled. Then I recognized him. Chad, it was Kebo! My stomach was sick. I was about to throw up or faint or both. I grabbed Cindy and pulled her to come away, but she wouldn't budge. She just stood there looking at him. Then with a smile, he said, "I do believe I recognize these two faces. I did not expect this. This makes this visit even more difficult." I could not speak or move by then. One of the White guys piped up and said they were from the Bethel Mission Headquarters, and this man had been a terrorist and recently repented to become a Christian. He'd requested to come to the Bethel Mission to ask forgiveness. Do you believe this? I didn't.

Then Kebo spoke. "Yes, I remember. You are Peter, the American. I must ask, how is your friend? I must ask, did he live? His name was... was—"

" _Chad," I said._

" _Oh yes! Is he..."_

I nodded and told him you were fine and back in the States. He smiled and said he was very glad. Then he looked again at Cindy and said he couldn't place her. I told him to leave her alone, that he didn't know her. Cindy told him she was the one in the window that day.

His face changed, and his lips quivered. He said, "I have become a Christian. Your friends, they prayed... they prayed and their prayers never left me." He went on about going to the Bethel Mission in Lupine and confessing or whatever. The White guys said he had changed, was a Christian, and would now work to bring peace and fight terrorism and talk about grace. What do you think? It still makes me sick to think about it. Just meeting him like that, I wanted to beat him to death with my shovel. I really believe I would have if Cindy and the children had not been there. Cindy says I must forgive. I do not argue with her anymore. I am still trying to understand how she can even want to forgive. She says it is because God forgives, because of ubantu.

Anyway, I thought you would want to hear this story. Please tell me what you think. Can you forgive the man who nearly murdered you? Maybe Cindy and Simon are right – that God's forgiveness is unconditional, that no one is beyond the bounds of his love.

The Professor looked at Chad and waited.

Chad stared into space shaking his head. After several moments, he finally looked at The Professor and said, "I... well, that's goddamn nonsense, Professor. The goddamn murderer asking forgiveness, like it's nothing. He can go to Hell. He should go to Hell. God had better not forgive him. What do you think?"

The Professor talked slowly, and as usual, his hands moved, but also slower, as if they could communicate as much understanding as his words. "Grace. Redemption. Forgiveness. There are mysteries we as human beings, must desire and pursue, even though we do not understand such things. Isaiah the prophet said 'God's way is not our way', and —"

Chad interrupted. "Just answer the question. Would you forgive the bastard, the pig, the killer, the terrorist?"

"I could only ask that the Ground of Being would make me willing to be willing."

"Whatever. Let's go on. Finish his letter."

Now here is some wild news for you. We are working hard to adopt two wonderful children – a boy and his sister, aged four and five. They are the kids Cindy stayed with the night after they first got to the orphanage, that night it happened. There are a lot of hoops to jump through and red tape to overcome. Roger has a lawyer and some church people helping us with the whole process and with finances. We hope it works out. Another big surprise, a bit of a shock – Cindy is pregnant! Sooner than expected, but there you go. I'm hoping she or he will be a redhead, a little troll doll.

Anyway, let us hear from you. Cindy sends her love. Go Sooners! What is that you all say? Boomer Sooner! Or was it Sooner Boomer? I still don't know what that means anyway.

Chad blurted out, "Oh my God! Surely not. I don't believe that. How about that?"

"It is truly superb."

"I guess. I suppose."

"Thank you for letting me share this letter with you. He is a very good person. He has indeed grown up."

"I miss him, you know."

"Yes, of course, and I do as well. You must tell him and his Cindy that they are to visit me when they come to Oklahoma."

Chad spoke softly, speaking more to himself. "I've never hated and loved a friend like that. I'm sorry, I am, for treating him like I did sometimes. Of course, he had his days, so I don't feel too awful bad. Okay, let's read the next one."

"Are you sure? Maybe you should—"

" _Ag_ _man_. Read it."

My Dearest Chad,

I am sorry it has been so long since I've written. I am sorry I haven't replied to your last letter you sent back in January. I certainly do not blame you for no longer writing. I should have written. I wanted to, and I have tried to many, many times, but never found the right words. I know what you would say – that I am still confused – and yes, that is probably true ... well, no, it has been very true.

But I finally feel my life is going well. Dad has stopped drinking. He has been sober for four months now. I finally told him I would move out, take Lisa with me, and live with our aunt if he did not stop his drinking. So we did, and only then did he realize it was not just a threat. He stopped, and we moved back two months ago. He is doing okay. He is seeing that woman. SIS! I hate her to death, but I know Dad needs to move on, and I will have to let him. Nevertheless, I will always hate her with untold passion. I will pretend to be nice if I have to, but I really don't want to be around her if he does ever bring her home.

Chad, I want and need to say that I miss you so very, very much. And I still love you so very, very much. I do not know what you feel now. I wish it could have been different when you were here. Life was so crazy, so awful last year. You were right ... I was afraid to love you and could not let you love me then. I wanted to. Looking back, I hate myself for so many things back then. I did love you, but I was afraid of everything. Everything!

You might hate me too much, but – and maybe I am crazy now and maybe it is too late – but I want to come to see you. I want to come and find out if there is still hope for us. I believe and hope there is. You always said you would wait. Perhaps you have, or perhaps you haven't. I would understand if you haven't.

I guess I'm asking what you think, what you would want. If you never write back, I will understand, but I hope and pray you feel the same. I hope and pray we can try again and pick things up from where we left off. I believe that now I can love you as you deserve. I understand I may not get the chance to prove it. If I don't – well, know that I am so sorry and that I will always love you!

Much, much love,

Sarah.

"Holy merciful shit!"

"You did not write her, Chadwick? She does not know, does she?"

"What am I going to do, Professor? What am I going to do?"

"You are going to break someone's heart."

Chad nearly yelled. "Tell me what to do, Professor!"

"I cannot help you. I have no books that can assist you."

"Damn. Damn it to hell! If only I hadn't gotten engaged over spring break. If I wasn't planning a wedding for September. Geez! If only ... I would beg her to come. Sarah! How can you do this to me? God, I love that girl. But... but... geez. In a different kind of way than I love Natalie. I don't know. Professor, Natalie is so sensible, reliable, predictable, and always safe. But Sarah? Wow! Her love was full of passion, intrigue. Her love was so God-awful unpredictable – a lot of hard work, but always wonderfully exciting, enticing, and in a strange way, fulfilling. It was a love I've never experienced before, and may never again. What the hell shall I do?"

"What does your heart say, Chadwick?"

"My heart says to break the engagement and pour myself into the enticing, the wonderful, the passion. But that heart has gotten me into trouble far too many times."

"What then, does the head say?"

"The head says to go with what is safe and predictable – the good and solid, the easy, simple, and realistic."

"It is something to sleep on, Chadwick. Something you must consider cautiously and prudently. Bring your heart and mind together. However, I believe that, in the end, there is no right or wrong in such matters. There are only choices to be made. Once a choice is made – well, you must put your whole heart, mind, and soul into that decision. Then, whatever the choice may be, it becomes the right one."

"You don't believe in fate, in destiny, Professor?"

"Fate? No. Only choices – decisions made under the eye of the Creator. That is what determines and guides our futures. Blind fate is a fallacy."

"That's so... so deadly mundane. No, I believe in Destiny. Professor. What I will do is this... I will flip this coin. Let fate direct me."

"That does not make sense, my dear friend."

Chad tossed The Professor a quarter. " _Ag_ _man_! Who ever said love makes sense, that life makes sense? Destiny makes sense. Heads, Sarah. Tails, Natalie. Now flip the coin."

The Professor threw the coin back to him and said, "No. If it is your destiny, your decision you want to toy with, you flip the coin."

Chad tossed the coin and let it land on the floor. He looked at it and smiled.

i From the article, "Unite Mobilise! Fight on! Between the Anvil Of the United Mass Action and the Hammer of the Armed Struggle We Shall Crush Apartheid!" cited in the South African History Online Library at http://anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/mandela

Nathan Bassett is a native of Oklahoma. In his early twenties he lived in South Africa for a year, then returned to the States and lived a few years in Virginia and Massachusetts. He then moved to England for thirteen years where he taught at a Bible school for missionaries from around the world. Later he worked as pastor in a church in the Midlands. A few years ago he returned to Oklahoma and now works as a therapist with troubled teens and their families.

'The Smoke That Thunders,' is a historical novel loosely based on his experiences in South Africa and Zimbabwe.

Also by Nathan Bassett

LIFE SO PERFECT

Maddie whispered, "Steven's not crazy Joe, he's damaged. He's hurt and broken, like everyone in this place. We're all broken, but never ever ruined."

Joe was determined not to make any friends – not while he was in a psychiatric hospital, where everyone around him was crazy. His only concern was dealing with his own inner demons, demons that insisted death was his best option. That's why he latched on to Steven, his schizophrenic roommate who was considered the social leper among the crazies on the adolescent psyche ward. Hanging around that angry and deranged sixteen year old Native American meant everyone else would leave him alone, that's what Joe wanted.

When Steven invited Maddie, a habitual liar and longtime cutter, to join them at dinner one evening, everything changed. The lives of these three hurting and broken teenagers would become reluctantly entwined and lead to an unpredictable course of events where they would have to depend on one another to survive.

