The Lioness(56)

It was also colder than she expected, but she was grateful for that discomfort: it might be what kept her alive because it was keeping her awake.

She tried to think of things that made her happy. The fourth-grade geography test on South America that she aced. The soft lips of the boy who kissed her when the two of them were standing in the wings after a rehearsal for the high school talent show. The Christmas tree when her father first plugged in those new lights. Dozing in the back seat of the car at night, her father and mother in the front, and her stuffed dog—she named him Moppet, though she didn’t know at the time what the word meant, but her grandpa sometimes called her that—in her arms. Now that word was her favorite onomatopoeic. Moppet.

She recalled how much fun she had had doing press last year with Shirley MacLaine, and the movie mag where she and the other actress had been shot for the cover at a mini-golf course. Reggie had made that happen. He’d made sure that it wasn’t just Shirley on the front of the glossy.

She also prayed. The Lord’s Prayer. Over and over. That helped her stay awake too, and it gave her a semblance of comfort. There had been a time when she had also known the Apostles’ Creed by heart, but other than the first two lines—“I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth”—it was gone. But she repeated those two lines in her mind, as well. She prayed that Felix was in heaven and tried to imagine what that was like. Angels? Did Jesus have a room waiting for him? Could Felix see her now in this tree? Was he with his sister, Olivia? One of the things she had loved about Felix was how much he had cared about Olivia and how acutely he had felt her loss.

Did she love her own sister that much? Probably not. But maybe. She just didn’t love the way her sister judged her and thought that being a mother was such noble work. Carmen didn’t disagree. She had supposed before this morning that someday she and Felix would have children. But she had other desires, other dreams. She took satisfaction in those things.

The night was alive with the endless chirping of insects, the cries and calls of birds she didn’t recognize, and the deep lowing of a herd of wildebeest that must have been passing nearby. It wasn’t quiet. Her and Felix’s home—fuck, her home now—in West Hollywood was calmer. If there was a big cat skulking out there in the dark, she wasn’t going to hear it. Or them. She recalled the birds she would hear when she was a girl growing up in Westchester. In the mornings, when she would be waiting for the school bus, she would hear woodpeckers, phoebes, and mourning doves. She tried to convince herself that the birdsong here—the night song—should be no more frightening. But it was. Of course it was.

Maybe she’d hear the hyenas before they attacked. The creatures really had sounded like they were laughing that one evening when they’d been near the camp: the high-pitched giggles of maniacs in a mental hospital. That’s what she’d thought of. Even before Charlie Patton had told them all at breakfast the next morning that what they had heard had been hyenas, she’d known. She just had.

God, she really was a smarty-pants.

Her head was throbbing again, and she wondered how she had forgotten to stay ahead of the pain. She reached into her pocket and swallowed two more aspirin. It seemed like a lot of work to unscrew the canteen, so she didn’t bother to wash them down with water.

The fire was out now. How had she not noticed it become a smoldering pile of red and yellow embers, and then nothing?

There wasn’t a sound at the base of the tree, and she was glad that Reggie was keeping silent. God, to be down there alone in the dark? In the morning—and she was beginning to think they really might make it to the morning—she would have to ask him whether this was worse than Okinawa. She just had no idea.

She rubbed her hands aggressively over her arms, warming them, and blew on her fingers. She rested her head against the baobab trunk and fought the urge to close her eyes by looking up at the sky. And there it was: a shooting star. One second it was there, and then it was gone. Had she ever seen one before? She wasn’t sure that she had. But it felt like a gift, an answered prayer.

“Did you see that?” she asked in a stage whisper, hoping that Reggie had.

When there wasn’t an immediate response, she felt an acute spike of anxiety. Had he fallen asleep?

“Reggie?”

Again, nothing. Just the endless concert of the bugs and the birds and the wildebeest. He really must have dozed off, and the idea didn’t frighten her as much as she thought it would. A part of her was even a little relieved. They both desperately needed to rest. But, still, she would have to wake him up.

She looked at her watch. And then, in horror, she looked at it again. It was three fifteen in the morning. Somehow, she had conked out for roughly three hours and not fallen from the tree. That was why she hadn’t seen the last of their little fire disappear. She wouldn’t have thought it possible to sleep and not tumble from her branch, but she had. She really had. She’d slept for hours. Well, she was up now, and she better wake Reggie, too.

“Reggie!” This time it was more than a stage whisper. “Reggie, wake up!”

Still, there was only quiet below her. He wasn’t waking up, he wasn’t responding.

Which was when she felt a wave of dizziness and nausea welling up: he might be dead from a snake bite.

Or he might not even be there. A lot could happen in a couple of hours here. Hours? Good God, a lot could happen in a couple of seconds. Especially at night.