Lit Fic #20: Heart of November Ch. 12
The couple argue. The trio save two hostages, but Amelia suffers.
Chapter 12, Heart of November
««« The Marital Argument »»»
Like many couples, their argument was over a trivial matter. Trivial enough that when he tried to remember it, all he could recall was the book he was holding as she flung cooked pasta at him; fortunately, without the sauce.
“It’s all you care about!”
He looked down at his plate with a sad salad decorating one edge.
“If you had to quit, you wouldn’t do it!”
“I like…”
“Like it!? That’s your excuse? You like it!?”
“It’s… stimulating.”
“Stimulating!? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. You call that… You’re turning into a … You’re turning into a … An old man! A provincial old man!”
“At least I’m not turning into my father. Or yours.”
As soon as he said, “Or yours” he knew the fight would escalate. He knew he shouldn’t’ve said those words, but in the heat of the… No. He promised himself he would never drag her father into any of their discussions. Their talks. Their … arguments. But he did.
“What!?”
Pasta smacked him in the head. It wrapped around his neck like a hungry skinny snake. He jumped out of his chair. He defended himself with the book he had: a paperback edition of Joseph Andrews. Pasta splattered on the floor.
She ran from the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door in his face as he raced after her.
“Hon?” he begged. “I’m sorry I said…”
“Shut up!” she countered. “And leave me Alone!”
He could hear the pain in ‘alone.’ He could hear the fear of another beating. He could smell the beer and whiskey bearing down on her like a tsunami of hate and anger. He relived her mother’s attempts at making things seem normal.
««« Moving »»»
“Hey, honey, guess what? We’re moving! Isn’t that exciting?!”
She would burst out, with a big smile slapped across her face. But all he saw was the fear, the sadness, the rejection, and uncertainty stapled to her eyes.
“Again?” he said once. He had just made a friend; a friend he liked. But his father did something at work or he couldn’t find work or was suspected of doing something so they had to move. He had to leave his friend. But when he said, ‘again,’ he saw the pain in his mother’s eyes. He realized she was just as disappointed and fearful as he was.
The next time she bounced into the living room as he schlepped in from school to regale him with “We’re moving! Isn’t that exciting?” he said, as happily as he could “Okay!” but he knew his mother knew he wasn’t happy about it.
“This town is so, you know, provincial,” she added as she rubbed his shoulders like a second in a boxing match. That’s how he felt. Like he was boxing the world and he was only eight or ten or twelve.
“Yeah,” he said although he didn’t know what provincial meant.
««« Moving Again »»»
Now he did and she used it against him; she used it to describe him. Was he turning into what his mother didn’t like? Something she wanted to avoid? Or was it just a word she used to describe wherever his father couldn’t find a job?
His image of provincial conjured up that sad smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer. And moving with all of their belongings stuffed into the trunk and back seat of whatever old car they could borrow or buy from a friend. Him in the back with blankets and pillows stacked against him. His sister pushed against the door by a box of dishes.
And his father, smoking cigarette after cigarette with the window up. The smoke clouding his view of the road. The haze of smoke filtering down to coat everything with a grey blanket. Everything; from the windows and their clothes to his sister’s lungs.
“Honey?” he said through the door.
Silence returned.
“Really, I’m sorry.”
The silence grew quieter.
He looked at the thin light flowing under the door. He saw no movement. He leaned against the hall wall. He slumped down until he was sitting on the carpet. He watched the light until his eyes began to blur. He heard the silence in his house; only the refrigerator made noise. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He dreamed of her sitting in her father’s car smoking a cigarette and turning into a snake.
He woke up.
She was standing over him.
“We argue like that and all you can do is sleep?!”
At that moment, half drowning in sleep and half awash in anger, he disliked her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He looked at his watch. It was early in the morning; several hours after their evening argument. She, he guessed, slept, too, or bathed in her own spite until deciding to confront him.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced. “Do whatever you want.” She marched to the bathroom and slammed the door.
It was a hard slam. An angry, spiteful slam. It reminded him of another place. Another time. Another woman. He tried to wrestle the sound from his ears, but couldn’t. He tried to shake her image from his memory, but failed. She kept appearing in different forms: alive, shocked, bloody. Slumped into the ratty carpet that decorated the entrance way. Dead.
««« An Escape? A Deal with the Devil? »»»
Kurtz banged on the door.
A man answered, his voice deep, menacing, and French.
“Me,” Kurtz muttered into the door frame, “Shandy.”
“Shandy? I know no Shandy.”
“Tristram?” Kurtz added, unsure of his pronunciation.
Silence seeped from the door. “TS? That you?”
“Yeah,” Kurtz mumbled, “yeah. It’s me, TS.”
The man opened the door.
Hairball, Sakombí, and Amelia burst in. Hairball shoved the man to the floor. Sakombí and Amelia hurried down the hallway.
“Where’re the girls?”
“I no speak the English!”
Hairball whacked the man in the head with his Ak-47. “Then you’re useless to me.”
“I speak…” Kurtz said.
“Shut up.”
Amelia knocked on the first door.
“May I come in?” Sakombí asked in French.
“Qui.”
Amelia shoved the door open. Sakombí jumped inside, his rifle at the ready.
A young Tutsi woman, maybe 15 years old, sat on the edge of the bed. She was dressed in a pair of men’s shorts and nothing else. She held a fashion magazine in both hands.
“You want outta here?” Sakombí asked. The room had a bed. A fashion magazine. A glass of water and a boarded up window.
The girl looked at Sakombí. At Amelia. At their guns. At the door.
“Come on. Quick. Get up.”
“Grab a shirt,” Amelia ordered.
The girl looked at her.
“Sakombí?”Amelia asked.
“Grab a shirt,” he translated into French.
“I have no …”
“Come on. We’ll get her one later. Hairball!”
They rushed her out of the room and over to Hairball. He stood over the unconscious guard. The girl saw the guard and backed up. Afraid.
“Hey,” Kurtz said at her breasts.
“You idiot,” Hairball warned him.
Amelia smashed him in the mouth. “One more word, you die.”
Amelia and Sakombí rushed off to the next door in the hallway. She knocked. A woman answered. They smashed the door open. Another girl. Another Tutsi. About 15. They lead her to Hairball. She saw the other girl and looked puzzled. She saw the guard on the floor and trembled. She backed away.
The other woman reached out and pulled her close. The stood, frightened, together.
“You’ll be safe here,” Hairball said.
“Nobody safe no where,” she answered.
Amelia crept into the living room. Empty except for a man with his head in his hands.
He sensed another human. Tired, he looked up. He saw Amelia. He grabbed his pistol. He yelled. He fired.
She fired back.
Two men ran into the living room. With pistols. Firing at Amelia.
Sakombí stuck his AK-47 into the room and fired without looking.
One man jumped behind the couch, shooting wildly as he sought safety. The two other men crouched behind chairs. Rattan chairs.
Amelia smiled as she aimed at the big couch.
“Tip! Tip!” the man yelled.
A door opened.
Tip stepped out carrying a .32 caliber pistol.
Amelia shot off a dozen rounds at the couch. It disintegrated instantly; the man riddled with half a dozen bullets.
The two men fired as they ran for the door.
Tip fired his pistol.
Suddenly, Amelia’s shoulder felt numb and painful at the same time. She looked at the small hole in her blouse and wondered why the hole was turning red. Then her shoulder felt cold. She looked at Tip.
He aimed at her.
She raised her rifle.
He fired.
She fired.
His one bullet smacked into the wall behind her.
Her ten bullets ripped through his groin, his chest, and his head.
The two men saw Tip’s blood-soaked corpse. They shot at Amelia.
But she wasn’t there. She was sitting on the carpet in the hallway. Their bullets splattered harmlessly against the wall.
Sakombí sprayed the room. Both men crumpled to the floor.
The silence was broken by the echoes of gunfire; the whimpering of two rescued girls afraid for their lives.
“Are there others?” Sakombí asked in French.
“Non.”
“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” Hairball said.
“Wait,” the second woman asked. She turned to Sakombí and spoke rapidly as she pointed at the other woman and the unconscious guard.
“She wants…”
“I know what she wants. Let her.”
Sakombí nodded.
The woman stepped carefully to the guard. She unstrapped his .45 caliber pistol. She aimed it at his head. She debated with herself. She adjusted her aim and fired.
The guard’s groin ejaculated blood.
“Jesus,” Kurtz said.
“That,” Amelia mumbled through her pain, “is what happens to all the girls you sell to Tip.”
The woman spun around and shoved the .45 into Kurtz’s face.
“No!” Hairball yelled.
The woman looked at Hairball. In that instant, life changed for all of them. Kurtz grabbed the pistol from her and shoved her against the wall. He fired twice.
The woman slumped to the floor; her chest bare, red, and spewing blood.
Kurtz aimed at Hairball. “Wanna be next?”
Sakombí stepped forward.
Kurtz slammed the pistol into his face. His nose erupted.
“Didn’t think so. Bitch here comes with me.” He wrenched the other Tutsi’s arm and yanked her closer to him. “Drop your rifles or she gets one in the head.”
The three lowered their rifles to the carpet.
“Now, I’m going to my room. I gotta meeting with Joseph. But I’m generous. I’ll let you live. Get out of town. Better yet, get out of the Congo. Go to Rwanda. It’s just down the street.”
“What’re ya gonna do with her?” Hairball asked.
“What do you care?” Kurtz pulled the woman to the door. He looked at Sakombí. “Shirt.”
Sakombí pulled off his shirt and tossed it to him.
He shoved it at the Tutsi woman. He wiggled his automatic at the three. He and the woman were out the door, slamming it behind them with an angry, spiteful slam.
“Well,” Sakombí said. “First, we need to get you patched up.”
“No,” Amelia countered. “First we have to rescue her from that asshole.”
“Amelia,” Hairball insisted. “You’re bleeding.”
“We know where he’s headed,” Amelia stated. “Plus, we know he’s pretty stupid.”
Hairball and Sakombí stared at her with ‘why’ on their faces.
“He left our rifles.”
Armed, they sprinted out of the captive house, down a back alley, and into Kurtz’s hotel. They ran up to the third floor and rushed down the hall to Kurtz’s room. The door was open.
Hairball looked inside. Kurtz had two large suitcases. He forced the woman to carry one. He headed to the door.
Hairball stepped into the doorway.
Kurtz lifted his automatic a fraction of an inch.
“Don’t even,” Hairball ordered.
“Come on, man. We’re friends, ain’t we?”
“Hand over the woman.”
“No can do, buddy. She’s my ticket outta here. Joseph find out…”
“He ain’t gonna find out,” Sakombí said as he pushed his way into Kurtz’s room. “…less you tell him.”
“The woman,” Amelia said.
“Listen,” Kurtz said as he kicked one large suitcase closer to the door. “And back there? Just saving my own life, ya know? I gotta get outta the Congo, right? An’ Joseph ain’t gonna let me. Or you. After you shot up his … income. Possessions.”
Amelia sat on the bed, her rifle across her lap. She looked at the Tutsi woman and then at the two big suitcases. The two suitcases screamed smuggling and the Tutsi woman’s frightened expression didn’t help.
“How ya gettin’ across the border? With her.”
“Look, guys, really. I mean, you gotta get outta the Congo, too, right?”
“I can’t,” Sakombí said.
“All the more reason,” Kurtz smiled. “Joseph finds you, well, you know. You gotta help me. I mean, we gotta help each other, right? I mean, ya know, I can get us all across the border; no problemo, señor, right?”
“How?” Hairball asked.
“Got my ways, right?” He patted one of the two suitcases.
Hairball lowered his rifle. He looked at Amelia. Her shoulder wasn’t looking good. She was losing a lot of blood and needed a doctor. Or at least someone who could sew her up.
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. I mean, we all got Joseph looking for us, right?”
“Whaddya think?”
Amelia stared at Kurtz. “I don’t trust the fucker.”
“After we get into Rwanda, you let the girl go?”
“Absolutely, dude, absolutely.”
Hairball looked at Sakombí. They studied each other. Each one trying to decide if Kurtz was trustworthy. Neither thought he was. But they also knew he was desperate to get out of the Congo.
“If we say yes, you’ll help us find a doctor for Amelia?” Hairball asked. “Once we get across?”
“Abso-friggin’-lutely, dude.”
Now Hairball and Sakombí were certain Kurtz was lying. They both knew as soon as he was out of the Congo, he’d be gone. He’d abandon them and the Tutsi woman, grab his bags, and be on the next flight to anywhere.
“Aright,” Hairball said and studied Amelia. “You feel up to a little travel, we get to Rwanda and get you a decent doctor.
“Sure,” she mumbled.
“All righty,” Kurtz smiled. He grabbed one of his bags and pointed at the woman to grab the other. She moved to the bag.
“No,” Amelia said. “Your bags. You carry ’em.”
“Ooooh,” Kurtz grinned. “The great white goddess has come to save the poor brown woman.”
“From a white asshole.”
“She does what the white asshole says,” Kurtz argued, waving his pistol at them. “Or I don’t help any of you self-righteous jerks across the border.”
Amelia bent to pick up her rifle, but hesitated when the pain got too great. She looked at Hairball. He bent, picked up the rifle, and handed to Amelia’s left hand; her good hand.
Kurtz and the Tutsi woman lead the way, each rolling a large bag along the aging hallway carpet. Hairball helped Amelia by carrying her bag as well as his. Sakombí walked behind all of them, listening and watching the other doors for friends of Tip or Joseph.
“You don’t think we look to conspicuous, do ya?” Sakombí asked. “With four AK47s?”
“Need ’em,” Kurtz answered.
“At the border?”
“Sell ’em before we get there.”
“Sell?”
“Look,” Kurtz said as they stumbled toward his car. “Three white guys with two natives, both without passports. Not good.”
“So?” Hairball lifted Amelia’s bag into the car. He glanced at Kurtz to see if he was serious. He was.
“Me, him, and her go first,” Kurtz ordered.
“She’s bleeding!” Hairball pointed out. He felt almost out of the darkness. Any change of plans, any abrupt diversions, worried him.
“No! We all go together.” Sakombí yelled. He knew his life was over in the Congo. As soon as Joseph found him, he was dead.
“Ain’t gonna be easy,” Kurtz said. He opened the back door and let the Tutsi woman in. “Gettin’ her across,” he grunted at the woman, “is gonna be easy. Gettin’ him across,” he glared at Sakombí, “easy. But the two of ’em? With a bleeding white bitch?”
“You said you’d get us all across. All of us! All!”
“Hey, hey, relax, dude. All I’m saying’s it ain’t gonna be easy? Okay? Jesus, re-friggin’-lax, Hairball.”
“Meaning, you gotta pay more,” Amelia answered.
“Shut up, bitch. I’m savin’ your sorry ass, so just shut up!”
Hairball opened the back door. Amelia stared at Kurtz, then slipped in. He looked at Sakombí. They debated silently until Sakombí got in beside Amelia. Hairball got in the passenger seat.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kurtz said. “Two white tourists up front with their white and black bitches in the back. Perfect, ya know? Perfect. Him,” he mumbled, “I dunno about, ya know?”
“You said everyone and you’d better mean it,” Hairball stared straight ahead as he patted his rifle..
“Get to the border, you assholes keep your mouths shut, okay? Got that? Let daddy do the talkin’, awright?”
No one said a word.
<<< saw >>>
Seven Congolese guards stood at attention while their commander paced in front of them; a lion studying its prey.
“We gotta go back,” Kurtz said as he spun the steering wheel around.
“Why?” Hairball asked.
“Because I said so!”
Kurtz spirited his old car down wide boulevards packed with cars and narrow dirt streets strewn with children. He hesitated at intersections as if deciding which way to go, then roared off.
“Lost?” Hairball asked.
“No!” He turned into a small road that ended in a small plaza. He slammed on the brakes and looked at the buildings surrounding them. There was a bar, a store selling used clothes, and a hotel. A small hotel with a hand-painted sign.
“We stay here,” Kurtz said as he flung open his door.
“Hairball?” Amelia whispered.
He turned to say something. But the sight of her shoulder, drenched in her own blood, stopped him. He watched Kurtz grab his two suitcases and hurry to the hotel.
“We gotta find a doctor,” Sakombí said.
“Come on.” Hairball scrambled out of the car. He helped the Tutsi woman out, then Amelia. Together they stumbled to the hotel. “You rest until we get a doctor. Shouldn’t be too long, right?”
Amelia nodded, but her eyes were glazed over and he feared she was slipping away.
Sakombí and Hairball helped Amelia negotiate the three concrete steps that lead to the front desk.
A tired clerk pushed herself out of a chair and stood behind the card table that doubled as the front desk.
“A busy day.” She smiled at the five approaching guests, one with a bullet wound.
“We’re looking for a doctor,” Hairball said.
“Obviously,” the clerk repeated. She checked Sakombí’s nose and Amelia’s shoulder festooned with flies.
“Know of one?” Amelia pleaded.
“Of course.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Eveline!” she shouted. She came out from behind the table, straightened a pile of magazines on another table. “You,” she said to Amelia, “You look not good. Wait here.” She rushed through a door and came back almost immediately. She handed Amelia a plastic cup of cold water. “This, maybe, make you feel better?”
Amelia nodded. She wanted to sleep. She knew the water would help, but she wanted to sleep more. She took the cup.
A young girl swung into the room, her earbuds blasting into the quiet store. She spun around and stopped with a powerful jeté in front of the cash box. She popped her earbuds off and smiled at the clerk.
“I’m taking these white people to Dr. Lambosa. Watch the shop.”
Eveline smiled, bowed at Hairball, Sakombí, and Amelia, moon-danced, plugged her earbuds back in, and began singing with the song.
“She is crazy, that one,” the clerk said. “Come.”
“Another … white man came in here just now. Did you give him a room?”
“A room? I am a hotel, why would I give a paying customer a room? Of course I gave him a room. Now, you want doctor? You want white man? Which?”
Hairball nodded and draped Amelia’s left arm around his neck.
The quartet marched down the busy streets.
“Where d’ya think Kurtz ran off to?” Sakombí asked as he swatted flies away from Amelia.
“No idea,” Hairball answered.
“Why’d he abandon that Tsuti woman?”
“Hey,” Amelia said. “Where is she?”
The clerk stopped in front of a red door surrounded by blue walls decorated with black outlines of wild and imaginative animals.
“Dr. Lambosa! It is me!” the clerk yelled as she banged on the door. She concentrated on the ground as she struggled to listen to the inside. “Dr. Lambosa!”
The door flew open. A woman in a green and red muumuu with silver and gold sequins glared at the clerk. Her hair sprung out in all directions and was decorated tiny purple, gold, and red plastic birds, wings outstretched in mock flight.
“You pregnant!?” she shouted at the clerk.
“No.”
“You?!” She fixed her gaze on Amelia.
“I don’t think…”
“Blood! You are injured! And you!” She peered at Sakombí. “You two! Come!” She disappeared into her office, sweeping her giant muumuu behind her like a cloud of joy and happiness.
“Thanks,” Hairball said to the clerk, but she stared at him.
“Ah.” He pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Thanks.”
“Oh, no, no. I can’t accept,” she smiled as she grabbed the money. “It is not our way. I did nothing.”
“For Eveline,” Hairball said.
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “For the children.” She smiled and walked away.
Within minutes, Dr Lambosa had Amelia’s arm sewed up and covered in gauze, salves, and a magic charm for insurance.
“Now,” Dr Lambosa sang, “You get to safe place nice medicine place — but not too much, okay? — You get that changed. You,” she pouted at Sakombí, “Keep your nose out of people’s business. You sell your sexy undies, you don’t go touching the ladies, okay?”
“I didn’t…”
“Hahahahaha! I am old woman, man, I know where your nose has been? Okay? Keep fists away from it, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, you children go. Run along. I have important thoughts to think.”
“Really?”
“Yes! Of Course! This white boy thinks I lie to him, but no, I do not. Once you are out, I must do important things and think important thoughts. I am old woman! I have no time for idle chit chat like you three.”
“Well,” Hairball said, “Sorry to interrupt your …”
“Interrupt!? He says he interrupts! You can not Not! Interrupt me! How can you Interrupt Life!”
She spun around. Her muumuu sprang to life. Her fingers, lifted high above her head, snapped to the rhythm in her head. Her feet shuffled, slid, tiptoed, and stomped. She sang a folk song in a false falsetto. She dropped her voice to bass and jerked it back up to soprano as her legs rushed her around her office. Then, like a flamenco dancer, she punished the floor with a decisive bang.
“How can you interrupt life!” she told the three. “Now, go. Getaway from me so I can… Enjoy an Uninterrupted Life!”
The three turned to the door, but Dr Lambosa caught Hairball by the arm and pulled him gently back into the room.
“This man you look for, this Kurtz,” she smiled. “You will find him with Nyoka. On the road to … well, you will see.”
“How did you know…”
But Dr Lambosa was swirling in a tight circle, her arms above her head, her hair shooting out ceramic birds, her feet tapping the floor like a telegraph. She was no longer concerned with the world, the everyday world. She was the world.
And I’d love to hear from you. Even if you have a complaint. Compliments are also nice, though. Up to you.