Ace of Spades

Grace double-checked that all the addresses were right. Email wasn’t at all like the post- twenty years ago she’d kept a worn notebook with the street addresses for friends and family, made her lists from it when it was time to draw up the Christmas cards, each one personalized. No, email, she thought, was impossibly fast. People changed jobs, switched accounts, or just didn’t bother to check them. So much for the online address book. Still, it would suit her purposes today- she couldn’t wait two weeks. It had to happen by tomorrow.

It had been quite a pleasant morning. Not too bad for the last one she’d see. First, she dealt with the necessities: bleached the grouting around the bathroom tiles, rinsed out the bucket with more bleach, and checked that the fireplace was empty of ash. Then, she’d wiped all the other surfaces in the house. Three hours, all told. Plenty of experience, she thought, bitterly.

She tried not to think of the cellar, where the cement had finally set. All those awful months digging in the gloom, with the spiders and mice twitching in the shadows. Grace was glad that was out of the way. The cellar door had taken ages to board up and cover with carpet, too. Her fingers ached a little. Although just 45, she had felt her joints protest at the extra work.

The cat eyed her from the windowsill. Grace smiled. The poor thing was so dependent on her. It’d be hard for the authorities to find a place to keep a middle-aged cat, although, to Grace, Cleo would always be the kitten she’d found her as, teetering on legs no bigger than stubby crayons.

A noise made her think that the television was on, but that had ended abruptly two weeks ago, and she was actually thrilled not to have to listen to Don correcting it all the time. Disagreeing with the weatherman, mocking the talking heads during the news reports. She was quite happy not to hear Don, ever again, in fact.

The noise was just a roll of thunder in the distance. At the next blue flash, she counted: One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, she counted until the thunder groaned again; it turned out that the storm was at least eight miles away.

She put on the skirt she liked. It showed off her knees, and she was proud of them. Knee-pride suddenly felt… silly. She chuckled to herself. A soft satin blouse made her feel warm, and showed just enough of her breasts to be both decent and a little daring at the same time. Grace was sad that the stilettos would have to wait for the next time she did this, but then she wouldn’t be around to see them.

Checking that the lights were off, except the one in the study, she thought again of the cellar. How easy it had been. Nobody had noticed Don’s absence. She had excuses and a fake sympathetic expression all prepared in case anyone had asked where he was, but no-one had. Oh, he’s gone to visit his aunt, she would have said. Very old lady that, it won’t be long now. She suddenly remembered, as she saw the glow of the screen in the corner that she needed to finish up.

Grace pressed “send”.

Grace was happy. Happy that he’d be blamed for everything. How many years of trays of food, expressionless lovemaking and then, towards the end, expressionless everything. He deserved what he’d get.

Going outside, she shivered. Not that cold was important right now, but it was taking the pleasure away from her.

She sat down on the side of the hole she’d dug over the past few nights, in the dark. It was a comfy fit. Launching herself into the damp earth, she looked up. Without all the other light, she could see the stars. None of them were shooting. They just twinkled, much as they had when she’d been born 45 years ago.

She grinned as she began pulling the dirt in on herself. Of how she’d made sure Don’s passport was gone, and how she’d asked a teenager to get the ticket in his name to somewhere tropical. Don! Don in the tropics! That was a laugh. He’d have moaned about the smell of suntan lotion, or the big ants, or something. Anything. That’s what he liked to do. Moan.

Taking her last few breaths, she looked up to see the cat, looking at her. The moon formed a halo against Cleo’s pointed ears. My angel, thought Grace. The last few chunks of earth slipped against her cheeks, and she thought that it was a little ironic: She’d struggled to get all Don’s angles completely secured in the cement, but she wanted at least her hand to be left for people to see.

The night disappeared as the soil toppled into the gaps.

Amanda’s computer made that alert signal she liked. It was the first notes of Fur Elise. She got up and walked over. New mail, it said. From Grace.

Hi, Amanda, I don’t have much time. Don’s been acting very oddly these last few weeks. I think he may be drinking again. He’s looking at me in a funny way, but I can’t describe it. I think he wants to hurt me. Please come and visit as soon as you can. Love, Grace.

#Flashfriday

It was the best of times, and the worst...

We live in a schizophrenic society in South Africa. Maybe that sounds harsh, or negative. There is a dichotomy that exists that is, on the one hand incredibly beautiful, and on the other deeply tragic.

Much of it comes from the hangovers of the past, for which there has been no instant-bloody-mary cure. No hair of the dog. No breakfast beer. The hangover just mutates and never seems to shake the tremors and anxieties and paranoia of the night before.

It’s too much to give all the credit for the best in South Africa to Nelson Mandela: The sense of community has always been there, and will remain here, and he tapped into that as the country tentatively went on those getting-to-know-you dates in the early 90’s.

But here we are: Facing horrific poverty, crime, drug abuse, gender violence and child abuse. Murder. Rape. And yet we stay here. We choose to. I hope that we can remain optimists, rather than survivors. That when we celebrate, and the world wonders why, they will see that we are a nation joined by tragedy and hope.

Here’s the reason for this reflection:

Yesterday, friend Tertia (famous blogger) gave birth to her son, Max, that in itself part of an ongoing miracle for her. And the sense of community is so great that the communal celebration pushed it into the top three Twitter trends in the world. #MaxDay was, for me, what represents the best in South Africa- a people who are capable of empathy and joy, and who show no reserve in that.
See the articles and links for more information:

And the worst of South Africa? Also picked up on Twitter- a blogging friend sent a message saying her friend’s father had gone missing. That his car had turned up. Could we help find him? And today she tells us that his body was found. This may be conjecture, but it is conjecture based on wide experience: I’m almost certain he was killed in a hijack/murder. I’ll of course retract that if it isn’t true, but it happens, hmm, every week? Day? People die for cellphones, cars, cigarettes, ten bucks, a pair of shoes... Certainly, South Africa has the highest per capita rape rate in the world- The Guinness Book says so. To our shame. And those are reported rapes, not the ones concealed for reasons of embarrassment, fear or shame.

Yet we can celebrate together, sometimes. We like it when our sports teams win. But that isn’t enough. Sport dominates the headlines in a way that dishonours the people of this country, that almost undermines our corporate mourning.

The sun rises over Africa, and shines on the South, and sometimes it is eclipsed by what can only be described as evil. But we know it will not set beyond the horizon never to rise again. We will wait for the morning with hope in our hearts.