Page 83 of Bastard
“And boxes continue to be delivered?”
“That is right.”
If I wasn’t covered in grime, I’d hug her. A strong sense of accomplishment washes over me. Both my programs are in effect. I’ve succeeded in doing what I set out to do.
“They want another demonstration,” Mustafa adds. “I said I would do it, but they refused. One sly devil even promised me he would use protection if I would not be the hostess. Told him that in my time, this old body was worshiped like the goddess Oshun. Very fertile. Before AIDS arrived, and before condoms could keep us safe when stealing some pleasure.” She claps her hands together in excitement. “We can do a demonstration Friday night, when the moon is full.”
Three nights from now. Time enough to take inventory of whatever has arrived.
Mustafa stands and wipes her hands on her long skirt. “I will share the news,” she informs me before heading off in a rush.
I watch her go, then feeling Hayden’s attention, glance toward him. My eyebrows lift as I catch his curious look.
How much, I wonder, has Tight-Lipped told him about my work here in Nmimpi?
30
I’m too tired by the end of each day to seduce him, though the thought isn’t ever far from my mind.
Days pass and the village falls into a new routine. Hayden has all available men, women and several highly enthusiastic children digging the trench for the pipes from sunrise into late afternoon, with food breaks in between. The excitement in the air is contagious. Running a waterline into the village seems a simple thing, but the cost of doing so is always the prohibiting factor in a country that’s ranked among the poorest in the world. I bite my lip, curious how much Hayden has spent on this project.
As for why ...
I study him as he addresses a group of workers nearby. Showing them where the next stages of digging should begin and explaining what else needs to be done to finish the job. A man committed to seeing this project done. And I love him all the more for it.
I’ve been elbows deep in dirt for days and probably the happiest I ever remember being.
We’ve fallen into our own routine. Every morning, I wake up in the same position, on my side and facing the wall with his body pressed into my back, with my nightgown up over my hips and his hand resting over my scars. It’s hard to say if he intentionally seeks them out or if he simply needs to place his hand somewhere in our small, shared bed.
To my dismay, it’s the only time he touches me. Our kiss a few days ago is forgotten, at least by him.
He’s not much of a morning conversationalist, but neither am I. We dress and prepare breakfast in silence. It’s like there’s a thin wall between us, with him on one side running on cool, calm, and collected, and me on the other side wanting and waiting. We’re close, yet so far apart.
I refuse to press him, though clarifying how things stand between us would ease my mind. I might love him, but I won’t pursue him.
He could be elsewhere, managing the bigger problem of shutting down that mine,I tell myself once again.Yet here he is.
A cowbell rings out, signaling it’s time for a lunch break.
I follow the narrow roadway we’ve been digging alongside this morning and fall into line next to Hayden. Together we walk back to the village to the washbasin on the side of the hut. His fingertips touch mine as he hands me the soap and a jolt of awareness hums through me.
“You have dirt on your chin,” he informs me before running his thumb across my skin to wipe it clean.
“What’s the cost of a little dirt when a main water source is on its way?” I reply. Tired yet so happy over our progress I could burst.
“Wash up first. Then, I need to talk to you.”
I stiffen, alarmed by his serious tone.
Hastily, I finish washing up, as does Hayden. We ignore waving villagers beckoning for us to join them, and I pretend not to see Mustafa’s thumbs-up as I follow Hayden to the picnic table located away from the others.
He’s prepared today’s lunch. Tuna fish sandwiches and ... beer.
I frown. “What’s wrong?”
“Did I say anything was wrong?”
“A beer break? There’s work to be done?”
