Whispers Under the Baobab

Chapter 1

She’s dead.

Sidu’s breath lodged somewhere in his throat. His grip on his water bottle tightened. His heart seemed to skip a beat, and then hammered wildly in his chest.

Ever since she left him, anger had been the dominant emotion when he thought of her, and that was daily. For all her bluster, she’d proven to be a coward. He’d been anticipating news of her death for some time now. He’d expected to feel … what? Release from the past and all that she represented? Yes. Freedom to live without fear? Yes. But sorrow? No. And yet it was sorrow that now threatened to crush him.

Too late to ask the questions that had haunted him for years, too late to explain, to tell his side of the story, too late to save her, to snatch her from that horrid nursing home. Too late…. He gulped for air.

He turned to Josef who was also dressed for their morning run. When?

Five hours ago.

Her laptop?

We found it under her mattress.

Could anyone else have looked at it before you got it?

No. Moussa was on watch last night. He had the laptop and was out of there before anyone even checked on her. There’s nothing on it.

You’re sure?

The tech team took care of it—files, emails, search history—all gone. They said not to worry.

Sidu paced, ignoring the view of the sunrise offered by the floor to ceiling windows. Shit, what the hell was she doing tapping on the thing every damn night?

Josef shrugged. This is for you. He held a memory stick in his hand.

Sidu’s brow furrowed. What is it?

The one file they did find.

Sidu closed his fingers around the Flash Drive; clutching it in his hand as if the little bit of plastic was the final bullet that could end his life. Maybe it was.

Moussa put the laptop back in her room where we found it.

Good. No need to raise any alarms. Have the guys watch the news. Bring me everything that comes out on her. There’ll be plenty.

You got it, boss.

She’d stopped reporting after the coup. Not a word published anywhere. He’d kept track of her for years, until she disappeared three months ago. It had taken longer than he would have liked to find her again, but when they did, he ordered surveillance cameras be installed in her room. For the past the two weeks he’d watched her indulge in a frenzy of writing on her laptop. If only he’d gotten to her in time. Now, his life depended on squelching anything incriminating she might have said about him.

About to instruct Josef to have his men interrogate the nursing home staff, he changed his mind. He’d deal with them himself.

Chapter 2

Showered after his run, dressed in khakis and a cream sweater, Sidu turned on his computer intending to check Google for anything that might have been posted on her death. Chrome defaulted to his email. Three messages from his sister.

I’ve just heard the news. I’m so sorry. This will be hard for you. Did you at least get to talk to her before she died? I wish I could be there with you now. Please tell me you’re okay.

I told Mom. She just kept saying over and over, The Laughing Lady is gone?

Sidu sighed. He was always amazed at how fast news got out, especially if it was bad news. He reread the email. Bintou, his sister and only sibling, was younger, but still she seemed to think she had to take care of him. As for their mother, with the state of her mind wobbling on senility, he was surprised that she remembered, but then who could forget Flo? He sighed again and opened the second email.

I can’t bear it. They’re talking nonsense about her, saying she wore bright clothes and flirted shamelessly just to get attention. Some reports are claiming that she tried to manipulate people for her own benefit. One even said her foundation is a cover and that she embezzled millions for herself.

God, it’s so crazy. You’d think she was a politician or something.

Bintou had no tolerance for politicians. Even the ones she thought might have some merit didn’t rise above snake level in her opinion. For the most part he agreed with her.

Can you believe this? McAllister earned admiration for her daring forays in war zones. A ferocious news hound, with a reckless streak, she confronted rebels, dictators, and the top brass demanding answers.

Ferocious!? Reckless!? These jerks didn’t know her at all. We know how kind and gentle she was. We know that she was careful, methodical, planned every move. It was her planning that saved you.

And her recklessness that almost got her killed.

Another columnist wrote, She once heaped scorn on Leonid Brezhnev and Lyndon Johnson, telling them they were fools to play their ego-driven games. ‘You’re putting the world at risk,’ she said. ‘And for what? A footnote in a history book?’

Now, that I can believe. Wouldn’t you have loved to see her in action?

Sidu closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Yes, he could see her in action, had seen her in action. More than once, she had scared the hell out of him.

Oh my God, I have to stop reading this stuff. Now they’re accusing her of having had affairs with every Tom, Dick, and Harry, as the saying goes. And they have pictures of her with dozens of different men, kissing them—in public! Apparently her colleagues are denying this, but of course it’s much more titillating to read about indiscretions than the truth.

Bintou’s reactions and her vocabulary made him chuckle. She sounded too westernized. Setting her up with the Internet had been a mistake. Access to American social media gossip was corrupting her.

Sidu, did you know that attempts were made on her life?

Sidu snorted. Hell, no need to try to kill her, she did a damn good job getting in the path of bullets all on her own.

It says In 1965, while in New York, a bullet narrowly missed her, lodging in the wall of the Ritz Hotel. The assailant was never found. And she apparently managed to elude teams of mercenaries sent to kill her. Not just once, but twice!

I saw a video clip of someone asking her how she escaped death. She shrugged her shoulders and refused to answer. I can picture that. They asked who might want her dead and she just laughed. Apparently, the big boys don’t like what I say.

Boss? Where are you? Breakfast is ready.

Be there in a minute, Sidu called back as he opened the third email.

Now they’re speculating about her disappearance from reporting. Did you know she became a professor of journalism after? Sounds pretty tame for her. I wonder if she missed the action. She must have.

Wow, I just read that she was majorly rich. Inherited a whole lot of money from her grandfather. She used the money for good causes, but really, should anyone be that rich? Oh, sorry, you’re rich and you should be. You do great things for us with your money.

Here’s a bit I think you will like to see. Rather effusive—Flo would likely have hated it—but worth reading.

Many of the baby-boomer generation idolized her and will mourn her death, as will those lucky enough to have been her journalism students. David Melbourne, New York Times editor, had this to say: She inspired us to be better than we ever thought we could be. We respected her honesty and determination. She challenged us to see beyond the surface, to dig for the truth. Beyond that, she insisted we had to put our knowledge and experience to good use. As she said, ‘Humans’ capacity for cruelty knows no bounds. Equally, their capacity for compassion and kindness knows no bounds. Use your clout to swing that pendulum to kindness and keep it there.’ Bottom line, we had so much respect for her that we went out into the world determined to emulate her."

When asked about the accusations of manipulation, Melbourne scoffed. Don’t believe a word of it. McAllister was too damn ‘in your face.’ Besides, she never would have stooped so low.

Sidu, my dear, I don’t think there is anything I can say to ease your way in this. I wish … oh hell; I wish so many things were different. Please take care of yourself.

I love you.

P.S. When will we see you again? The grandchildren are asking for you. They always want to hear Mom’s stories, but she muddles them up these days and you tell them much better than I do.

P.P.S. Call me when you can. I’ll have my cell with me at the clinic. I don’t care if you interrupt my work or wake me up in the middle of the night. I just need to hear your voice.

P.P.P.S. Did I tell you, I love you? Well, I do.

Chapter 3

Nancy found her husband half asleep in his recliner, television blaring. Handsome devil had been her first thought when she saw him that day at the festival and she’d been insanely jealous of the girl with him.

She smiled indulgently at his mumbling, something he often did in his sleep. Just couldn’t turn his mind off. Her heart swelled with love. Still damn good-looking and fit, not like so many men who let themselves go. She loved the bits of gray at his temples that belied his youthful face. His father had been handsome, one of those brooding movie star types, but she much preferred Perry’s rugged not quite perfect features. When it came to real versus pretty boy, she’d take real, thank you.

He looked so darn tired, she hated to disturb him, but this couldn’t wait. She found the TV control and muted the volume. She nudged Perry’s arm and, when he opened his eyes, she held out a sheet of paper for him. Hey, big guy, look at this.

Perry pulled back. What?

All these scribbles, everything we think is gibberish—

Perry groaned. God Nance, are you still fooling with Mom’s files? I thought you gave up long ago.

I think it’s a code.

Perry snorted. Nonsense. You spend too much time reading those trashy detective novels.

Nancy swiped at his shoulder with the paper. Do not and you know it. I’m serious, Perry. I couldn’t give up on the idea that your mother had something important to say. Why else would she have pounded on her laptop every single night? How many files did you copy every time you went to see her? There must be 400 pages or more on that stick. Something had to have been nagging at her.

Perry shrugged. Who knows? Alzheimer’s did strange things to her brain.

Hands on hips, Nancy stood her ground. Well, I think she had her reasons. She insisted over and over again that you copy the files? And didn’t you say she then deleted them off her laptop? Why? What was she afraid of? Or, who? Besides, how sure can we be that she wasn’t faking the memory loss?

Give it up, Nance. Perry stood and wrapped his arms around his wife. I appreciate what you’re trying to do and I know you loved Mom, but we have to let her go. She had Alzheimer’s, she’s dead, and she’s not coming back.

***

Nancy swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks. Sometimes the pain of losing her mother-in-law was unbearable; as bad as the loss of her own mother when Nancy was thirteen. Her father had left for parts unknown never to return while her mother was still in the delivery room; her mother’s standard answer to her questions never varied. I don’t know why he left, sweetheart.

Her mother’s aunt and uncle had been kind enough, but they were elderly, their house a tomb of quiet. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Routines that never varied. She’d read novels describing characters like them, but had found that too farfetched to believe. She learned quickly, after her mother’s death, that fiction could mirror reality. Books were her only escape, but even they weren’t enough to fill the void in her heart.

She had virtually no friends at school beyond the small group of girls also ignored by the student body. They were the misfits and they knew it with the painful certainty that adolescents have.

We don’t know them, dear, her aunt said each time one of them invited her to go to a movie or the mall. That was enough of an excuse to say no.

We can’t afford to be buying birthday presents for children we don’t even know, her uncle said. Now go back and tell the girl no, and throw this in the garbage. He handed the birthday party invitation back to her. She took it upstairs and added it to the shoe box of treasures she kept in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

Nancy buried herself in books and her school work, ignoring, as best she could, the taunts of the kids who laughed at her old-fashioned dresses, hand-me-downs from her aunt or the boxes of her mother’s clothes that her aunt had frugally packed and brought along. Her aunt’s lace-up boots were the worst and Nancy prayed her feet would grow enough so that the boots would no longer fit. Clumsy and awkward in gym class, she didn’t believe the kind and caring athletic director who claimed that she could be an amazing long-distance runner if only she’d try.

Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, but no. It’s not for me.

The years passed in agonizing boredom and then the principal called her into his office. Nancy opened his door gingerly and entered on tiptoe.

Come in. Come in, the principal said and held a chair for her. You, my dear, have the highest average in the graduating class and the honor of being this year’s valedictorian.

Nancy cringed. No, no, no. I can’t do that. She’d be an even greater laughing stock if she stood on stage and tried to make a speech. The valedictorian should be someone popular, someone the others respected, someone with pizzazz. She didn’t fit any of those requirements.

The principal tapped a pencil on his desk. He looked baffled. But, but … it’s a great honor.

I know, sir. She had to come up with a reasonable excuse. She’d decided long ago that she wouldn’t go to her graduation, sure her aunt and uncle wouldn’t buy her a dress, sure no one would dance with her. What could she say? But I just can’t.

Would you like me to talk to your guardians?

Nancy panicked. No! Please just leave it.

Her principal agreed, but she could tell he was reluctant to let it go.

Then Perry, that wonderful man with the patience of a saint had approached her with a smile. She had been so shy, didn’t know what to say to him. But still, he’d asked her out and then a second time after their disastrous first date where she was sure she didn’t say more than two words all evening. When she met Flo she knew she’d hit the jackpot. She felt that she finally had a family, a lively, fascinating mother, who told it like it was, often in shockingly salty language which Nancy never tried to emulate, but admired. And then there was Perry, the wonderful, witty boyfriend who had somehow become her fiancé. Both cocooned her with their love and Nancy felt the knots in her heart begin to loosen and fall away.

***

You okay? Perry asked. You seemed lost there for a minute.

Just thinking. I know I may be building a mountain from a molehill, but look at this. Nancy pulled away from Perry’s embrace and held up the page. I was typing an email to Georgie to thank her for her condolences and got gibberish that resembled your mom’s files. I couldn’t figure it out and then I realized I’d had my fingers one key over to the right on the keyboard. So, she paused for dramatic effect, "I did some experimenting. The sentence:

It looked like this.

became

Oy ;pplrf ;olr yjod."

Perry grunted as he studied the page.

"I tried a sentence of Flo’s and got nothing so I put my fingers one over to the left.

It looked like this.

became

Ur kiijws kujw rgua.

Still didn’t match, but when I put my finger over two keys to the left …bingo. Here. Read what I just transcribed."

It’s a lie. I’m sorry, Perry. So sorry. I should have told you the truth years ago.

Perry stared from the page to his wife and back, his mouth hanging open.

Chapter 4

Merle and Neil had invited themselves over and now joined Brit on the front steps of her house. Brit’s mom brought out milk and cookies.

Mom, it’s okay. We’re not little kids. But the guys were already reaching for the cookies and her mother gave her an I told you so look before she went back into the house.

They sat without speaking as sunlight faded to dusk. Late afternoon melancholy seemed to have enveloped them all. The end of summer is always like that, Brit thought. But this year feelings were intensified. No more high school, everyone going off in different directions. Friends would be losing touch, perhaps never to see each other again. Would that happen to her and Rose? Would Merle and Neil one day be no more than a memory? She hoped not. Damn, life was changing too fast.

Merle played with some grass, chewing on the tender part of the blades. Brit had to smile. She’d done that too, when she was a kid. Merle tossed the grass aside and took a bite of his cookie. His skin had cleared up. Only a few zits left. That doctor Flo had sent him knew a thing or two. Neil sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. Brit hoped she never lost touch with the guys. We’re all brooding, Brit thought. She squeezed her eyes shut to stem the flow of tears.

I miss Flo.

Merle patted her arm. I know. We do too. Neil offered her a crumpled tissue. She shook her head and pulled a clean one of her own out of her pocket.

Brit sniffled. I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish we could have done more for her, gotten her out of that rotten place.

Merle scowled. Yeah. We did our best, but yeah, we should have done more.

They’ve started fixing up the place, Neil said.

Too late for Flo.

Brit blew her nose again then giggled.

What’s so funny?

Just picturing Flo climbing out the window with us that night she decided we should raid some gardens.

Oh, man, that was a hoot. Remember her lips and tongue all blue from the berries?

And tomato seeds all over her hospital gown.

Wouldn’t have happened if she’d let me cut the tomatoes first.

And Flo mad because we hadn’t thought to bring salt.

Remember the time she challenged us to a race up and down the hallways?

I thought we’d get caught for sure.

She was damn fast for an old lady.

Brit’s giggles faded. Her face got all red. All that running was hard on her heart. We could have killed her.

Merle wrapped his arm around Brit. We helped her, Brit. You have to remember that. We helped her as much as we could.

Neil patted her shoulder. She loved you. That’s the only thing that counts.

I loved her too.

You okay now?

Brit nodded. Better. Thanks for listening.

Merle waved at the front yard. I thought we’d see a For Sale sign.

Brit shook her head. "No. Mom’s staying here