White Dog Fell from the Sky

45



Her mother’s voice came to her distantly, as though an ocean current were flowing through the phone line. Only a couple of weeks before, Alice had written her mother that she’d fallen in love with someone she felt she could love forever. Today, she told her that Ian was dead. Across oceans, she cried. Her mother offered to get on the next plane, and Alice told her no.

“I’ll quit my job, take a leave of absence.”

“No, Mom.”

They went back and forth. She heard her mother’s stifled crying. “You’re so far away.”

“I’ll find my feet again.”

“Come home.”

“I can’t, Mom. Not now, not yet.”

The connection went dead. She tried calling back but couldn’t get through. She didn’t want to return to Cincinnati. Out the window she saw White Dog sitting by the driveway. She thought of Checkers, the black and white dog of her childhood who used to sit beside her bed all night.

Her bedroom had been on the second floor of an old house. A huge silver maple grew in her neighbor’s yard, its limbs stretched toward her window. When the night was still, the leaves whispered, and when the wind was shrill, the branches tossed and banged against the house, like a raging old man. Let me in, let me in! A squirrel built a nest she could see from her window, lined with shredded bark and grass. Baby squirrels were born hairless, their eyes closed. Their parents rushed around all day and brought them sumac fuzz to eat. The nest turned fuzzy pink. The babies grew and ran about on the limbs. New people bought the house next door, and they had the tree cut down. The great limbs lay on the ground like fallen elephants. By the end of the week, only sawdust and a stump remained.

That kind of sorrow was what waited for her in Cincinnati. What would they do all day? Cry? Every morning she’d wake up to the memory of a loss. One loss would give way to another, the way a fire travels underground after lightning strikes a tree, the roots of one tree igniting the next.

She tried calling her mother again without success. There was something she needed to say.

She remembered as a teenager thinking, It’s easy enough to love a dead man. They require no understanding. They aren’t unreasonable or moody or demanding. They want nothing but loyalty. Well, your daughter’s alive. She’s living under your nose. Try loving her, why don’t you?

She’d been unfair back then. Her mother had loved her and still loved her. What more could she ask for? She’d like to tell her that she’d been as good a mother as she knew how to be. But she still didn’t want to be in Cincinnati.

Her mother called back the following day and asked her once again to come home.

“I can’t leave right now, Mom. I need to ride this out here.”

“Because he’s buried there?”

“That’s part of it.”

“I understand.”

“You’re the best mother anyone could have. I just need to be here. And I want you to be living your life there.”

“I’ll worry about you every moment.”

“Mom, I’ve got to get to work. Please don’t worry. I’m going to be all right. I have friends here who care. Will and Greta. Muriel. My neighbor, Lillian.”

“I miss you, darling. You’re too far away.”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I love you.”

They said good-bye, and Alice sat for a moment by the phone. One of her earliest memories was sitting in a kitchen sink, her mother holding a bar of Sweetheart soap and running her hands over the bones of her shoulders. Never again would the love between them be that uncomplicated.

A letter arrived that day, addressed to Isaac, postmarked Pretoria. She hesitated to open it but then did. It was written in Afrikaans. Hoe gaan dit met jou? How are you? Beyond that, she had no idea what it said. There were numbers in the text, which was all she could decipher. It was signed Hendrik Pretorius. She walked back to her truck, trying to think of someone who knew Afrikaans.

Lillian had a friend. She’d been over for dinner on a night Lawrence and Alice had been there. She tried to recall the name. Like a mosquito repellent. Petronella, that was it. Pet for short. Pet Steyn. She couldn’t remember Pet’s husband’s name, but he treated her as though she didn’t have a brain in her head. Maybe she didn’t, but she could probably translate the letter. On the other hand, what if it contained information that shouldn’t be shared? But no one with any sense would send incendiary information across the South African border. Pet lived off the Outer Ring Road, and Alice drove straight there. She didn’t want a “no” over the phone.

Pet answered her knock wearing a lime green leisure suit. She was thin, nearly anorexic, the top of her arms corded. Her face was heavily made up, giving her fine features a certain coarseness.

Alice explained about Isaac’s disappearance.

“So you want this translated.”

Alice nodded. Pet went into the kitchen and brought back a tray with two glasses of iced tea and set it down on a low table in the living room. “I’m not very literary,” she said, sipping from her glass.

“It doesn’t matter, don’t worry.” The house was cool, still, empty. Alice couldn’t imagine what Pet did all day while her husband was at work. A blank, clean, crushing life. She took a gulp of tea. “Don’t worry,” said Alice again.

Pet put on her reading glasses, looked over the first page, and began. “The items you requested will be on the northbound passenger train, arriving 9:02 A.M., May 26 in Mafeking station. Gaborone, at 3:42 P.M. The items are unaccompanied. For obvious reasons, it is important that you meet this train.”

“What items are those?” asked Pet, laying the letter down in her lap.

“I don’t know,” said Alice.

“Who are these people?”

“I don’t know that either. They know Isaac.”

“Who’s Isaac?”

“My gardener. The man who disappeared. Is there more there?”

Pet picked up the letter again. “Please inform us immediately that the pickup has been successful.” She turned the page over. “Then they give their phone number. It’s signed Hendrik Pretorius.” She looked at Alice. “How well do you know Isaac?”

“As I said, he was my gardener.”

“Was he involved with the ANC?”

“He may have been. I don’t know.”

“If I were you, I’d throw this letter away and have nothing more to do with it.”

You’re not me, thought Alice. She always hated it when people said “if I were you.”

“It sounds to me like an arms shipment. I’m telling you, I’d have nothing whatsoever to do with this. The ANC is full of desperate individuals.”

And why are they desperate? thought Alice. Because they’ve been f*cked over all their lives. And they haven’t a goddamned thing to lose. “It’s not necessarily arms,” she said. “And if it is, I’ll leave them there.” She stood up. “I really appreciate your time and your help.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Pet, “I regret helping you.” She handed over the letter. “Promise me that you won’t meet that train.”

Alice said nothing.

“Listen,” said Pet, “I hardly know you. But I know South Africa. To be perfectly blunt, you wouldn’t know squat about what goes on there.”

“I appreciate your help. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

The shipment was three days away. She damn well would meet that train. She went home and found that the electricity had gone off all over the Old Village. Itumeleng had left dinner on the table for her, covered with a dish towel, but she wasn’t hungry. She got up to call the phone number in the letter, but there was no dial tone. That was nothing new.

The next day she kept trying. On the evening of March 25, hours before she was to meet the train, she dialed again, and this time the call went through. A man’s voice answered in Afrikaans, the voice shaded, deep, elderly. “I don’t speak Afrikaans,” Alice said. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course.”

She explained where she was calling from and that Isaac had worked for her as a gardener until he’d disappeared. And she apologized for opening his mail.

“Where’s Isaac?”

“He’s been deported. The police believed he was a double agent.”

For a moment, Alice thought the phone had gone dead. When Hendrik spoke again, his voice was raspy. “I’ve known Isaac since he was a young boy. He’s never been anything but exemplary. This couldn’t be worse. God help him … What did you say your name was?”

“Alice Mendelssohn.”

“Alice, what are your circumstances?”

“I’m an American. I work for the Botswana government.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Are you strong?”

The question took her by surprise. “Physically?”

“No, I mean strong.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I must ask my wife … no, there’s nothing to be done. The shipment is already on its way. I can’t give you the details. My phone may be compromised. All I can tell you is that this is extremely problematic. Isaac’s mother has worked for us for years. She and my wife and I deliberated about what was the right thing to do. We had no idea he wouldn’t be there. Can you meet the train?”

“Yes, but what do I look for?”

“I think it will be apparent once the train has unloaded and the platform has emptied. And please call.” The conversation felt wooly, dreamlike.

“When?”

“As soon as possible. Whatever happens.”

“Yes, I’ll be there. I’ll let you know.” She rang off.

After dinner, she walked over to Will and Greta’s house, carrying a flashlight, needing to be surrounded by the chaos of a prospering family. It was Friday night and the kids were still up, the littlest one in tears over a broken arrow. “Never mind,” Will said. “I’ll make you a new one.”

“But it won’t be the same. There won’t ever be one like this one.” His son cradled the broken bits in his arms.

“You’re right, there will never be one just the same. But listen Bronco-roo, it’s past your bedtime, and your mother and I want to talk to Alice.”

“Why can’t I talk to her?”

“You wouldn’t be talking. You’d be shouting. Now get your pajamas on. Now. I mean it.”

He went off.

Greta poured a glass of Stellenbosch for each of them and sat down and put her feet up on a stool. Then the little one was back, staggering with fatigue. “Come on, tiger,” Greta said. “Bedtime.”

He began to cry. “I’m not tired, not a bit tired.”

Greta laughed. “I’ve never seen such a tired boy. C’mon now, I’ll read to you about the mouse dentist who tricked the fox who had the sore tooth.”

“And he was going to eat the mouse after the mouse fixed his tooth.” He stumbled after her.

The two bigger boys were still outside, up a tree. Will called them in. They stood in the middle of the living room like wild animals, cornered, having to be polite. Soon, they disappeared into their room.

“Just watching you makes me tired,” Alice said.

“You find your groove. They’re good kids. The problem is they have ten times the energy we do. Did you never want kids of your own?”

“It never happened. Probably a good thing considering how things have turned out.”

“The only good thing about no kids is that you’re not stuck having to be nice to Lawrence the rest of your life.” She thought of what a child of Ian’s and hers would have been like. Fierce, curious, lively. Don’t go there, she told herself. She took a gulp of wine. “So. Something’s happened. A letter came for Isaac.”

Greta came back into the room. “He’s conked. We didn’t get three pages into the story.” Will handed over her glass of wine and she sank into a chair.

“A letter came for Isaac,” Will said.

“I had Petronella translate it. It was in Afrikaans.”

“Who?”

“Pet. I think you’d know her, at least by sight. That tidy, uptight South African woman? She was very unhappy with the contents. I just spoke to the man from Pretoria who sent the letter. A shipment is coming tomorrow by train, but he couldn’t tell me what was in it. He thought his phone might be tapped.”

“It sounds like arms.”

“I don’t know. I’m meeting the train tomorrow.”

“Is that wise?”

“I promised.”

“Do you want me to come?” Will asked.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to get you into trouble. I’ll leave it on the platform and call the police if it looks dangerous.”

“You won’t do anything foolish,” said Greta.

Alice laughed. “Spoken like a true mother.”

“And you’ll let us know?”

“Of course.”

“How are you?” Greta asked.

She had another swallow of wine and set down her glass, unable to speak for a moment. “I’m managing. When I think about him, sometimes I almost can’t breathe. Like trying to get my breath underwater.” She really meant like trying to breathe under sand. Too often, she imagined his body, the sand clogging his nose, his mouth. The thought of him suffocating took her to a place beyond bearing, as insane as she knew it was. She rubbed her face with her open palms.

“My mother called. She wants me to come home.”

“And?”

“I told her no.”