Mists of the Serengeti(52)
After a quick lunch of pilau and stewed fish, we drove on through the gravel road that led out of town. The clusters of homes and shops soon gave way to cassava fields and banana plantations. Mango trees edged the street, bows heavy with fruit. There were few travelers on the road to Magesa, and the trees closed around us as we followed the dirt track leading to the village. The path was wet from rainfall, and the car fell into a constant rhythm of gas, brake, gas, brake, as Jack navigated around ravines and boulders. We ran into trouble after hitting a particularly deep pothole. The Land Rover gave a hellish clang and lurched to a halt.
“Damn it.” Squatting on his heels, Jack peered under the car’s carriage. Two of the wheels were mired in thick, black mud, but he seemed more concerned about something else. “We broke an axle. It probably came undone with the rhino attack, but this just sealed the deal.”
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Well, we’re not going anywhere until we get it replaced.”
“How far to Magesa?”
“Too far to walk. We won’t make it before nightfall, and there’s no way we’re going through that forest in the dark.” He pointed to the thicket of trees ahead. “I’ll call for a mechanic. See if they can come help us out.” He turned on his phone and shook his head. “There’s no signal out here.”
“Shit. We’re screwed.”
“Not yet. But we will be when the sun sets and the lions come out. Don’t worry,” he said, when the color drained from my face. “We’ll take turns keeping a look out. I’ll keep watch on the roof while you sleep, and then you can do the same for me. Here.” He tore off a branch from the tree, stripped the leaves, and handed it to me. “Start whittling. A long, sharp point is best.”
I held the stick, speechless, as he ducked into the car to get a knife. It took a moment before I caught on.
There are no lions prowling about here.
Sure enough, when I marched over and swung the door open, there he was, doubled over. Laughing. The sound of it was like ripples in a still pond, after a stone has been thrown into it. It radiated outward, enveloping me, until I couldn’t help but join in.
It was in that state of intoxication, that release from self-consciousness, between peals of laughter, that I realized I was totally, completely in love with Jack Warden. It hit me like a ton of bricks, that you could feel so alive, even though your heart was nowhere in your possession, and you knew that you were going to walk around without it for the rest of your life. I stepped away from him, the laughter dying on my lips like he had speared my chest with the stick I was holding. I dropped it and turned on my heel, but my shoe was entrenched in the mud and I lurched, face forward, into the ground.
My downfall was complete. Quite literally. Absolute embarrassment. Absolute humiliation. Because Jack could read me like an open book—my whys, ifs, and buts; my starts, stops, twists, and turns. It was exhilarating because it was effortless—no explanations needed. It was terrifying because it left me transparent, with no blanket of pretense. There was no way to hide my feelings for him.
When Jack helped me up, I avoided his gaze. When he wiped the mud away from my face, I kept my eyes on the ground. When he sat me down and poured water over my palms, I watched the dirt wash away.
“Rodel.”
Damn him. Damn his voice. Damn the way he said my name.
He lifted my chin so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. He wasn’t smiling or laughing. It wasn’t the face of a man who was amused. He was looking at me with a mix of such intense tenderness and yearning, I choked back a sob, because beneath it all was an apology. For the things he stirred up in me, for the things I stirred up in him, for the bittersweet journey that had brought us together, and for the parting that was yet to come. And then very softly, very gently, with one finger still under my chin, he kissed me—once, twice, three times—like he was picking a bouquet of flowers from my mouth.
“Your hair is a mess,” he said, running his fingers over my mud-coated tresses
“I’m a mess.” I took stock of myself—my feet, my clothes, my nails.
“It’s an easy fix. Stay right here.”
He got a kerosene stove out of the trunk, and before long, he had heated up two big pots of water, set up soap, a bucket, and a folding chair.
“Welcome to Jungle Jack’s Salon.” He bowed with flourish. “Sit. Lean back.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, settling into the chair.
“Washing your hair.” He adjusted the angle, so my head was hanging over the edge of the chair.
“Shouldn’t we be figuring out what we’re going to do next?”
“Shhh.” His breath fanned against my forehead, sending little shivers down my spine.
And there, on the road to Magesa, beside a car stuck in the mud, Jack Warden washed my hair with a bar of blue soap, as I sat on an old chair that he carted around in his trunk. When he poured warm water over my hair, I closed my eyes and thought how there really ought to be a word to describe the sensation when your lungs fill up with the sweetest air, and yet you’re left completely breathless.
It was more intimate than a kiss, Jack’s hands trailing through my hair, the rough pads of his fingers massaging my scalp, making slow, steady circles as he worked the lather from my roots to my tips. He started at my temples, moved on to my head, and down to my nape. Massaging the back of my neck, he kneaded the muscles until my head fell back, relaxing into the cup of his palm. My skin tingled from his touch, from the sensual rhythm of his strokes, from the deliciousness of an unexpectedly submissive moment.