Private Lies (29 page)

FULLY DRESSED, ELIOT dozed fitfully. Most of the night he
had spent arranging and rearranging the matrix in his mind. No other outside
stimuli intruded, until he sensed the stirring for which he had waited. Sitting
up abruptly, he peered through the exposed corner of the mesh window and saw
the faint glow in Meade's tent. He looked at his watch. It was nearly four. In
an hour dawn would begin to lift the darkness.

Carefully, with long pauses, he unzipped the entry flap of
the tent and slipped out into the soft African night.

Meade, his hair ruffled, his face bearded and mottled, sat
on the edge of his cot rubbing the shiny barrel of a big Armsport rifle with
oiled cheesecloth. He acknowledged Eliot with a lugubrious nod. On the floor
beside him was an almost empty whiskey bottle.

"You could turn me in for this, too," Meade
croaked hoarsely as he lifted the rifle.

Carrying arms on photo safaris was against the licensing
regulations for safari operators. For Meade it would be evidence of one of any
number of gross infractions if Eliot was inclined to press charges against him
with the governing authorities.

"I could, you know," Eliot said. "And you'd
be finished."

Meade observed him with bloodshot eyes.

"I was a goddamned fool," he acknowledged. He
looked at the bottle but made no move to reach for it. "Fucking
booze."

"The others want out," Eliot said. Only then did
he sit down beside Meade on the cot.

"Who could bloody blame them?" Meade said,
putting the rifle aside. He jabbed one of his hands into the air, palm down. It
shook uncontrollably. "Hands of the great white hunter," he mocked.
"I'll tell the boys to pack it up first thing. Just give me a bit of time
to pull it together, Butterfield, and we'll head back to Nairobi, say late
morning."

He was the picture of contrition and shame, a man who had
shattered his own pride by weakness. Having known and worked with Meade in
happier days, Eliot had hoped for such a reaction.

"I think another day would do just fine," Eliot said.
He did not look at Meade's face as he spoke. "That is, if you can handle
it."

"What about the others?"

"If I vouch for you, they'll go along."

"I don't know," Meade said.

"Yes, You do," Eliot pressed. "The fact is
that I can cause you lots of grief, maybe shut you down for good."

"I won't deny it," Meade sighed. "Especially
the part about the grief. Not many alternatives for a one-use bloke like
me."

"You're too good a man to waste," Eliot said,
offering a tight smile. "Give us one good day more." Yes, one good
day more, he thought. That should do it. "And we'll call it, as we Yanks
say, square."

"And I'm home free?"

Eliot nodded. "But no booze," he said.
"Absolutely no booze."

At that point Eliot turned to study him. Meade was having
trouble with that one.

"I won't bullshit you, Butterfield. I'd need one or
two for the road. I'll promise nothing on board. My word always holds. You know
that."

"If you say so," Eliot said. A drunk's word, he
knew, was always dubious.

The man's eyes met his glance for a moment before turning
away.

"You're worried about the other, too?" Meade
asked. It was a soft question, without malice.

"What other?"

Both of them knew that that, too, needed to be addressed.

"People come to Africa to discover something,"
Meade said. "They tear off the outer skin of so-called civilization. Seen
it a thousand times."

"You're going to give me philosophy now, Meade?"
Eliot asked wryly.

"Just truth. I know you're a searching man."

"If you say so," Eliot responded, his relief
palpable. The quid pro quo had been agreed to.

"You were afraid the booze would talk, weren't
you?"

"You're pressing it now, Meade," Eliot cautioned.
He had expected the contrition to be deeper. "I can ruin you, you
know."

"This isn't business," he said, shaking his head.
"I won't fuck up on that. It's been bugging me, though."

"What has?" Eliot was genuinely curious now.

"You just sat there. I saw you making no move. You
wanted me out of it, didn't you? Because of what I knew."

"That's paranoia talking. Ken Kramer was in a better
spot," Eliot said calmly. "Somebody had to stay at the wheel."

"I'm grateful to them both," Meade said, his
bloodshot eyes studying Eliot's face. He seemed to have an urge to say
something more. Then he shook his head as if he had rejected the idea and
cleared his throat. "Mrs. Butterfield showed a lot of guts."

"Yes, she did," Eliot said. "They got you
out of a tight spot. That's all that matters."

"One good turn deserves another," Meade muttered.
It seemed too esoteric to challenge and Eliot offered no response.

Meade shrugged, picked up the rifle, and resumed polishing
it. "I'll be damned if I go out without one of these again."

"They catch you, it's suspension," Eliot warned.
"And it wouldn't be my fault."

"If I ever use it, it'll be a choice between my career
and my life." He blew out a mouthful of nauseating whiskey stink.
"Probably neither worth much these days. Anyway, it's a stupid regulation.
How the bloody hell do they expect us to protect our clients?"

Eliot slapped his thighs and stood up. He had no desire to
hear Meade rant about the world's injustices.

"It's settled, then." Eliot put out his hand.
Meade took it. The man's hand was hot. He imagined he could feel his gratitude.

"We'll make it a great day," Meade said, raising
his hand. "There's my pledge. Except for just a swallow to steady the
hands."

"That's a given, Meade," Eliot said, smiling. He
started to move out of the tent, then paused at the entrance. "And let's
try to avoid the cats."

"We've seen enough of those bloody bastards."

"I was thinking, maybe crocs and hippos."

Meade nodded. "Crocs and hippos, it is."

CAROL AWOKE, SURPRISED to see Eliot's cot empty. Through
the mesh window she noted that the eastern sky had not yet begun to lighten. A
faint orange glow and murmuring voices emanated from Meade's tent.

Eliot, as promised, was having his little talk with Meade.
Why now, at this hour? Why clandestine? She debated with herself about sneaking
behind Meade's tent to listen in. It troubled her to note that their voices
were low, barely audible. One would think that loud arguments were in order.

She had awakened in a burst of optimism, certain now that
yesterday's act in helping Ken was her epiphany. It wasn't blind stupidity at
all. Snug in her cot last night, she was able to look deep inside herself and
see the truth of it.

Nothing could be worth the loss of Ken, of their love.
Nothing. She had been at war with her instincts. She had been given this second
chance, and since time was finite she must snatch it, nourish it. Failure, rejection,
and hardship had skewered her value system, distorted her priorities.

The fact was that she had been lucky. She must not try to
tinker with the inevitability of fate. In the face of love, greed was supposed
to pale. Their prenuptial agreement had been created at a time when Eliot was
suffering the terrible after effects of betrayal. Surely, time had softened the
painfulness of that experience.

Hadn't she been a good wife? If not loving, certainly
dutiful? Trusting and loyal, at least, up until the point that Ken had
reentered her life? She had made assumptions, based on a rationalization of her
own betrayal, that Eliot must punish her for what she had done. It followed
that he would then invoke the hated agreement, strip her of her possessions, banish
her with nothing.

But was Eliot really that cruel and dispassionate? Above
all, wasn't he a man who valued truth? She pondered this question, allowing
that she might, if she left out any reference to Ken, effect a compromise with
Eliot. He was, after all, quite comfortable financially. If necessary, she
could even do well with half the value of her possessions. Well, maybe that was
too generous. Certainly some reasonable percentage might be arranged. She
checked herself from negotiating in her mind, but the idea of approaching Eliot
exhilarated her.

Nevertheless, the old paranoia was difficult to eradicate.
She needed to tell Eliot in her own way and as soon as possible. Immediately,
if possible. She wanted it out of the way before they got to Nairobi. A speech
surfaced in her mind. She would cite the need for space, for separation, for a
different life, asking only fairness, equity. Her confidence soared. Eliot,
after all, was a fair man. Wasn't he?

There was no sense in postponement. Besides, she wanted
relief from this pressure and she needed to remove the strain. Above all, she
did not want Eliot to receive any inflammatory information from others,
especially Meade, who might be spiteful and vitriolic in the telling. Please
don't do it, she begged Meade in her heart.

In truth, she knew that Eliot, tempered by the experience
of his marriage and his acute sense of loyalty, could not abide betrayal. This
was the caveat that underlined the prenuptial agreement in the first place. To
Eliot, she had come to believe, infidelity and betrayal were mortal sins. She
could understand that trait in him. How was one to protect oneself against
that?

Whatever happened, win, lose, or draw, even if Eliot stuck
to the letter of the agreement and she left the marriage with nothing, she and
Ken would be together, together without lies and secrets. The nobility of the
idea stirred her, although she granted that she could never go that far.

It occurred to her that maybe the way to Eliot's sense of
fairness was to admit all. She tested the idea in her mind. Yes, she might
throw herself on his mercy, confess her love for Ken, and try to make him
understand that loving someone else poisons a marriage. She would deny any
infidelity, however. Would he believe her?

"
Jambo!
"

She was startled. It was one of the boys bringing her the
tray of morning coffee. He put it on the table between the cots. She was
sipping it when Eliot came in.

"One more day," he said. "I've been talking
to Meade. He's promised to behave."

"Do you think that's wise?"

She was genuinely disappointed. As far as she was
concerned, the safari was over.

"Actually, I wanted him to vindicate himself and,
thereby, avoid turning him in."

"You would have done that, wouldn't you?"

"Absolutely. He put us in jeopardy. But we were lucky.
If he doesn't knock off the boozing, he could be a killer. We'll leave
tomorrow. Maybe use the extra days in Europe." He looked at her and
smiled. "Time for a second honeymoon."

Europe? She remembered what she had told Ken. They would go
to Europe. He would find inspiration in Europe.

Eliot's sudden injection of sentiment confused her. Does he
know? she wondered. Was this a deliberate attempt to motivate guilt? She made
no comment, hoping that she could chase the idea away. She would tell him today,
she decided, summoning the words, sculpting in her mind the form it would take.

Meade came to breakfast smelling of wintergreen mouthwash.
The whites of his eyes were covered with a network of red rivulets, but he was,
otherwise, chipper. He offered no apologies.

"We've got hippos and crocs on the agenda today,"
he said.

"And tomorrow we break camp," Eliot said
cheerfully. There was no point in recriminations at this stage. Carol looked
toward Ken. Go with the flow, her eyes told him. He seemed to understand.

After breakfast, she called to him, loud enough for the
others to hear.

"My camera is stuck, Ken. Think you can get it
right?"

He came over to her, just out of earshot of the others. She
handed him her camera.

"I'm going to tell him, darling," she whispered.

He looked up at her, startled. She felt a flush beginning
beneath her tan.

"Thank God," he said, his voice low. "I love
you."

"Today," she said. "I want it all
finished."

"And the agreement."

She shrugged. "It's Ken Kramer I need most of
all."

He looked at the camera, fiddled with it, looked through
the lens. She could see Maggie and Eliot heading toward the van, watching them,
but still too far away to hear them.

"May I kiss you now? Right here? In front of
them?"

She flashed a radiant smile instead and stepped back from
him.

"I must make love to you," he said, moving
forward. "I am choking with desire. At this moment."

"When we're free, will it be like this?"

"Yes. Always."

"I am very happy, Ken."

"And so am I."

She sensed that he wanted to say more. His face seemed
alight with playfulness.

"The gods are smiling, Carol," he said.

"Yes, they are."

"Maggie wants out of our marriage." He said it
slowly, his eyes beaming.

She felt a sudden thump of blood in her chest.

"She knows about us?"

He shook his head and laughed.

"She has her own agenda. Apparently she wants to make
a new life for herself."

She thought about that for a moment. Doubt flashed through
her mind. Was it possible?

"You're sure it's not someone else? Not Eliot?"

"She says no."

She watched his eyes. Did he see her doubt?

"Do you believe her?"

Suddenly she saw the picture in compressed time. The hours
Maggie and Eliot had spent together in his office. Couple friends, Maggie had
called them. Couple friends, indeed. Maybe she and Ken had accomplished their
goal, after all. Images of Maggie and Eliot together unreeled in her mind.
Realization grew concrete. Intuition seeped into her. No woman would suddenly
rearrange her life if there wasn't someone else in the picture. Not in today's
world.

Of course, she thought, feeling the jolt of joyous
revelation. Who else but Eliot? Maybe we've won, after all. A sunrise of hope
filled her. Just in time, she thought. She would confront Eliot with that,
before her own truncated confession. Her conclusion was pure instinct, but the
possibility of certainty was compelling.

"She's lying, Ken."

He started to say something, but it was too late. The
others had come too close. Ken handed her the camera and they started to move
toward the van. Then an odd thing happened. Eliot opened the door for Carol and
got in beside her. Not once during the entire safari had he done that.

"Why don't you ride shotgun today," Eliot said to
Ken with a smile. Maggie took her usual position in the back of the van.

Meade gunned the motor and they headed out of camp into the
plains.

Carol was confused now, getting mixed signals. Why was
Eliot suddenly being so solicitous? And Maggie? If Eliot was not the other man,
then why choose Africa in which to confess? Why not wait until they got home?
Why not, indeed? She had just gone through that argument herself and came out
on the side of action. Maybe she was being premature with her own confession.
Maybe the best course was to wait, to see how things unfolded.

They passed the usual herds of gazelles, zebras, impalas,
giraffes, buffaloes, and the canopy of exotic birds. It was a glorious morning
under a cerulean sky without a puff of cloud. The ground had drained and
hardened and the van moved swiftly and smoothly.

But Carol could not muster any interest in the sights. Her
mind buzzed with imagined possibilities. She looked toward Eliot, who, catching
her gaze, smiled benignly and patted her hand.

What was going on here?

"It's a gorgeous day," Eliot said. "All
creatures love the aftermath of a rain. The earth is clean, sweet." His
nostrils flared as he sucked in gulps of the fresh African air.

"The green hills of Africa," Ken said, looking
into the distance. Carol knew where his thoughts lay and she longed to share
them. But this new wrinkle absorbed her attention. She was searching her memory
for signs. She recalled bits and pieces of conversations. Eliot singing Ken's
praises. Ken telling her how hard Maggie worked to contrive to make her and Ken
friends.

And all those attempts to throw them together. That first
summer day when Maggie and Eliot begged off going to the theater. The Wildlife
convention. It was Eliot, after all, who had brought up Africa in the first
place. It was they, Carol and Ken, who had been manipulated, the real victims
of the ploy. But why?

She wanted to laugh. They were fools. All along it had been
Eliot and Maggie calling the shots. She was sure of that. But why? She would
have gone like a docile lamb, banished with her possessions, avoiding all this
angst and deception.

Anger replaced elation. She turned to look at Eliot. He
smiled broadly, his face serene and attentive, while her heart was filled with
hate. Then why didn't he offer compromise? What was behind his sinister
actions?

As they rode, Meade pointed out the sights. A huge herd of
buffaloes, a black bovine mass, moved beside the track carting their army of
tick birds. Ahead a trio of warthogs ran for cover. They passed a white bearded
wildebeest, or, better described, a gnu, his face like a wise man stoically
observing their folly. Above, a flock of vultures glided in the distance.

"Table set for the last sitting," Meade said,
pointing.

"That's Africa for you. All about death," Ken,
said.

"On the contrary," Eliot said. "It's about
life. Death is transitory. It's the life force that is immortal."

"It's a morning for philosophy, is it?" Meade
asked cheerfully.

The van climbed then moved downward, where the hills
flattened toward the river. The track led through groves of acacia trees and a
riverine forest that paralleled the river. Meade drove the van until it
dead-ended at a promontory about twenty feet above the water. As he set the
brake, they could see foot trails running along the bank following the river's
sharp, curving flow.

"Be alert and concentrate here," Meade said.
"A misstep could mean breakfast for the crocs."

They got out of the van and moved along the trail, stopping
occasionally to observe the hippos gamboling in the river, looking like giant
rubber bath dolls emerging and submerging with noisy inhalations, their gaping
mouths exhibiting enormous teeth and huge pinkish tongues.

Meade moved out ahead, Ken and Maggie following, while
Eliot and Carol brought up the rear. Carol was deliberately lagging behind, and
since Eliot was attentive, which continued to baffle her, he kept at her pace.
Perhaps her attitude had signaled its message to him. She needed to talk,
needed to explore her speculations further.

The others moved around a bend, intent on their
observations. Carol heard Meade offering them a running commentary. Letting
them move on, she stopped to observe the creatures in the river through her
binoculars. Eliot, standing beside her, did the same.

She panned the river and its banks, noting the crocs, their
hides looking like long rock formations.

"They'd never win a beauty contest," Eliot
muttered next to her. Just beyond the bend, she could hear the buzz of Meade's
nonstop explanations.

She kept the binoculars held to her eyes, watching the
creatures in the river. Eliot had moved closer to her. She felt the words
erupting inside her, the thing that had to be said. If it was imagined, fancied
wishfully, she would know that, too.

"I know about you and Maggie," she whispered.

He looked back at her quickly, eyes narrowing, lips pressed
tightly together.

"You are much too close to the edge, Carol," he
said, his voice sounding harsh as it rose. "You are too close."

She let the binoculars drop to her chest, looking downward
watching his approaching shadow. But she did not turn, confident of her
dancer's balance, holding her ground. Then she felt his hand touch her upper
arm, grasping it. She shifted her stance, trying to pry loose his fingers. He
was losing his footing, unable to anchor himself, beginning to fall forward.
She moved with him, alert to the danger.