“How did you find out about me?”
“That’s a long story, but I’ll do my best to be brief. Frank Jessup, a man I knew from way back, happened to be in town. I hadn’t seen him in almost forty years, but we’d kept in minimal contact since then. Christmas cards, the occasional letter, but no more than that. Anyway, when we were having lunch, he made a reference to your mother, and mentioned that there were rumors she’d had a son less than a year after I left the country. He didn’t say it was mine, but I think he wondered about it. After the conversation, I wondered, too, so I hired an investigator and he went to work. Which took time. There are still a lot of people afraid to speak about your grandfather, even though he’s not around any longer, and we both know the country has gone to hell, so records are sketchy. But long story short, the guy was good and I eventually sent someone to the lodge in Hwange. He took photographs of you, and when I saw them, I knew right away. You have my eyes, but you got your facial structure from your mother.”
Harry turned toward the window, letting the silence hang. Tru thought about something the man had said only moments before.
“What did you mean when you said that you didn’t want to complicate my life?” Tru asked.
It was a few beats before his father answered.
“People talk about truth like it’s the solution to all of life’s problems. I’ve been around long enough to know that isn’t the case, and that sometimes truth can do more harm than good.”
Tru said nothing. He knew his father was building to a point.
“That’s what I’ve been considering. Ever since I realized that you’d agreed to come, I’ve been asking myself the question of how much I should tell you. There are some…aspects to the past that might be painful for you, and parts that, in retrospect, you might wish I hadn’t told you. So I suppose what I say next is up to you. Do you want the whole truth, or selected parts of it? Remember, though, I’m not the one who’s going to live with the knowledge for years to come. My regrets will be much more short-lived. For obvious reasons.”
Tru brought his hands together, considering the question. The opaque references and careful phrasing made him curious, but the warning gave him pause. How much did he really want to know? Instead of answering right away, he rose from the table.
“I’m getting some water. Would you like a glass?”
“I’ll have hot tea, if it’s not a problem.”
“Not at all,” Tru said. He found a teakettle in one of the cabinets, filled it with water, and set it on the burner. In yet another cabinet he found packets of tea. He filled his glass with water, took a drink, then refilled it. It didn’t take long for the kettle to whistle, and he prepared the cup and brought it to the table. He took his seat again.
Through all of that, his father said nothing. Like Tru, the man didn’t seem inclined to fill the silence with small talk. Interesting.
“Have you made up your mind yet?” his father asked.
“No,” Tru answered.
“Is there anything you do want to know?”
I want to know about my mother, he thought again. But sitting beside the old man at the table led to an entirely different question instead.
“First, tell me about you,” he said.
His father scratched at an age spot on his cheek. “All right,” he said. “I was born in 1914, in Colorado, in a sod house, if you can believe that. Three older sisters. In my teens, the Depression hit and times were tough, but my mother was a teacher, and she always stressed education. I went to the University of Colorado, and picked up a couple of degrees. After that, I joined the army. I think I mentioned in my letter that I was in the Corps of Engineers, right?”
Tru nodded.
“At first, most of my work was stateside, but then the war came. I spent time in North Africa, Italy, and then finally Europe. Mainly demolition at first, but by late 1944 and the spring of 1945, it was primarily bridge building, under Montgomery. The Allies were moving quickly into Germany by then, and there were a lot of water barriers, including the Rhine. Anyway, throughout the war, I grew friendly with one of the engineers from the British side. He’d grown up in Rhodesia and had a lot of contacts. He told me about the mining and the minerals, just waiting to be tapped, so after the war, I followed him there. He helped me find a job at the Bushtick mine. I worked there for a few years and met your mother.”
He took a sip of tea, but Tru knew he was also debating how much to say.
“After that, I returned to the States. I went to work for Exxon, and met my wife, Lucy, at the company Christmas party. She was the sister of one of the executives, and we hit it off. Started dating, got married, had children. I worked in a lot of different countries over the years, some safe, others not so much. Lucy and the kids either joined me there or stayed in the States while I did my time overseas. The perfect company family, so to speak, which aided my career. I rose through the ranks and worked there right up until retirement. Finished as one of the vice presidents and made a fortune along the way. We moved to North Carolina eleven years ago. Lucy had grown up here and wanted to go home.”
Tru scrutinized him, thinking of the new family—and life—that his father had created after his time in Africa. “How many children did you have?”
“Three. Two boys and a girl. All of them now in their thirties. My wife and I will celebrate forty years this November. If I make it that long.”
Tru took a sip of water. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”
“I think I have a pretty good idea about you. The investigator filled me in.”
“So you know I have a son. Your grandson.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any desire to meet him?”
“Yes,” he answered. “But it’s probably not a good idea. I’m a stranger and I’m dying. I don’t see how it would do him any good.”
Tru thought he was probably right about that. But…
“For me, though, you felt differently. Same reality, but you drew a different conclusion.”
“You’re my son.”
Tru took a sip from his water glass. “Tell me about my mother,” he finally said.
His father lowered his chin, the words coming more softly. “She was beautiful,” he said. “One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was a good deal younger than I was, but she was…intelligent and mature for her age. She could speak at length about poetry and art, things I knew nothing about, with passion and expertise. And she had the most wonderful laugh, the kind that just draws you right in. I think I fell in love with her the first night I met her. She was…extraordinary.”
He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief again. “We spent a lot of the next year together—she was at the university, and the mine had a laboratory there. We saw each other whenever we could. I was working long hours, of course, but we’d make the time. I remember that she used to carry with her this book of poetry by Yeats, and I can’t tell you how many times we read those poems aloud to each other.” He paused, his breath coming unsteadily. “She fancied tomatoes. Had them with every meal we ever ate together. Always sprinkled with a bit of sugar. She adored butterflies, and she thought Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca was the sexiest man she’d ever seen. I began smoking even before I joined the army, but after she told me about Bogart, I began to hold the cigarette the same way he did in that movie. Between the forefinger and thumb.”