White Dog Fell from the Sky - By Eleanor Morse Page 0,17

had happened to the child she’d hoped to conceive. Would a baby be daunted to come into this world of interminable blue sky, heat that scoured your brains clean? The sky had been blue for months, unbroken by the smallest cloud. Some days she felt her throat wanting to scream, to break the flatness of that blue.

Within the past several weeks, she’d wondered whether the emptiness of her womb had to do with not loving Lawrence deeply enough. She blamed herself, and then she blamed Lawrence. She’d not expected to have to work so hard at love; it had become a kind of hard labor. The word that came to her when she thought of her husband was “hidden.” She couldn’t tell whether his emotional vagueness was something peculiar to him with her, or whether he’d be this way with anyone.

They’d been in Botswana a year and a half now, brought here from the States because of Lawrence’s job. Alice had begun looking for work immediately and found a position with the Ministry of Local Government and Lands, working on land-use policy connected to the San people. She knew she was damn lucky; it would have taken her ten years to be qualified for a similar job back home. But she didn’t feel lucky. She felt like crying. And she blamed herself for that too. Look around you, she told herself. So you never have a baby. Make a different life.

Lawrence stirred next to her. Because it was summer, they began work every day at seven and finished at five, with a big chunk out of the middle for napping. She touched him on the shoulder and then shook him gently. “It’s time.”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Why are you grumpy?”

“Who said I was?”

They got out of opposite sides of the bed, dressed, and drove back to work together in her truck. His Toyota was being repaired. Before she let him out at the Ministry of Finance and Development Planning, he said he needed to work late that night, not to wait for him. “How will you get home?”

“I’ll find a ride.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll walk.”

“You could call me.”

“Alice, stop.”

“What?”

“Just don’t.”

6

It took Isaac three quarters of an hour to walk to the Old Village, White Dog at his heels. She who must not be called madam was outdoors when he arrived. “I need to go,” she said. “I’m late for work. Please water the trees, and make a plan for the garden. As you can see, it’s not had much attention. Could you make a garden plan, something different from the usual? Do you understand?”

“Ee, mma.” Why did white people always have to ask, Do you understand?

“Walk around the village,” she said. “Or take the bicycle at the back of the house. Look at other gardens, and tell me what you think would work well. We’ll pay you thirty rand a month. And my husband doesn’t like water to be wasted. He’s traveling for the next ten days.”

And then she was off, backing her truck down the driveway. Suddenly she stopped and rolled down the window. “Is this your dog out here?”

“Yes, mma.”

“Is it a him or a her?”

“A her, madam.”

“They should be all right then. I don’t mind her as long as she doesn’t fight with Daphne. I think things will work out fine. I’m glad you came back.”

Why wouldn’t he come back? He waved until she was out of sight.

This madam was the tallest white woman he’d ever seen. She had big bones, like a man’s bones, and although her face was young, her hair was already becoming gray. She pulled it back from her face with a clip, but it fell back into her eyes. It was halfway between African and European hair, but an African woman would not have it falling everywhere. Her eyes were gray like her hair, and large, with a little blue in them. Her nose was not quite straight, as though it had at one time been broken. In the middle of her chin was a tiny valley. She was not an unpleasing looking person, but he didn’t really trust her. Why didn’t she tell him what she wanted? She was the one paying him. Something different from the usual? He didn’t know what the usual looked like. He felt for a moment that he had not been born to be someone’s gardener, and then he stopped and told himself that this thought was nothing more than