Adelaide
I feel faintly voyeuristic.
Yet my rational mind’s telling itself there’s nothing explicit about this scene.
I’m watching Ford move along the ground in a crouch, collecting his things. He’s bundling everything up in his arms, his muscles standing out prominently.
It’s this bulging mass, this glistening meat, this well-defined bodily strength, and the sheer capability of applied force that has me so confused about what I’m feeling.
The way he moves his body is mesmerizing. He’s a giant with strong and determined movements. Nothing can come between this man and his objective once he’s set his mind to it.
I snap out of my reverie and force myself to move from the spot outside my hut. I pity him because the monkeys got into his things, but I also want to continue just watching him.
Instead of turning my back on Ford and entering my hut, I approach him.
“Here, let me help you.”
I stroll over and bend down to scoop up a few of his things.
“I got it,” he almost barks.
He quickly scoots over to take a compass out of my hand, which he slides into the breast pocket of his khaki vest.
I just can’t help myself and watch him more, hunkered down on the ground to retrieve the chaos the monkeys have strewn around.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” I start again. “Though I warned you of the vervet monkeys.”
“It’s okay,” he grunts.
But this time, when I start collecting loose cartridges, he allows me to pick them up and return them in their cardboard box.
“What are these for?”
“Rifle cartridges, caliber .45 mm. Standard issue, really.”
“A bit of overkill, don’t you think? If you want to stay, you better come up with a different plan to fend off those monkeys.”
“They’re for protection.”
“Do you always come this prepared?” I’m not dropping the subject. “Ready to shoot high caliber at a protected species?”
“When I was trained…” he begins, but then he catches himself. “I was born ready,” he says instead in all earnestness.
I must be gaping, because he cracks a faint smile, half-hidden by his beard.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you at a loss for words so soon, Doc,” he says.
His expression “born ready” has me picture something else entirely—a naked baby Ford with full manhood.
I close my mouth and bend to pick up some of his over-the-counter medication.
“Out of medical concern,” I say, “are you currently taking any of these? Or any medication? Do you have a medical history I should know about?”
“I’m fine, Doc.” He waves me off, but then quietly adds, “Thanks for asking.”
“All I’m saying is I don’t need another patient on my hands. Dengue fever? Malaria? Have you been taking—”
“This isn’t my first job in adverse territory,” he interrupts me. “Don’t you worry about me catching any fever.”
“Adverse territory?” I’m raising my voice, mildly offended. “This is a beautiful spot. Don’t insult the home of these people.”
“A little dry, perhaps,” he adds.
I nod at that. He’s right. Everyone’s hoping for the relief of rain.
We walk in circles in silence for a while, collecting stray objects and piling them by the entrance of his tent.
“So you chose this place, then?” he suddenly asks. “Or did the organization send you here?”
“Doctors Without Borders? It was fifty-fifty, kind of. I said Africa, and when they proposed here, I agreed.”
“Quite remote. Far away from home.”
“I like that.”
He makes a gesture for me to go on, and before I know it, I start gushing.
“I wanted to plot my own course through life, different from what my family expected or planned out for me. And it all worked quite well, until my meddling brother interfered.”
“Sten means well,” he says diplomatically. “He cares for you.”
“Well, to you, I’m just another job,” I say dryly. “One where you show up with a bush knife, automatic weapons, and MREs.”
That came out way snappier than I intended.
I shoot him a look and catch a wincing grimace on his face, but he’s fast to avert himself.
He clears his throat after a moment. “It doesn’t seem as if the agency knows who you are.”
“No, I kept details pertaining to my family from Doctors Without Borders as best as I could. I didn’t want to repeat the experience of med school.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once my peers knew I came from old money and billionaire parents, they kept their distance. They were cordial but reserved. As a result, I threw myself into work. It helped me get to the top of the class and keep fellow students at bay.”
“True friends are always hard to come by,” he offers, stroking his beard.
If only he knew. Since that high school night so long ago, no one ever came as close to me as he did.
Medical school had its fair amount of debauchery, and I sure saw a lot, but I experienced nothing firsthand—other than longing and yearning fantasies and the occasional wet dream of Ford and me going beyond where we went that night.
But when I look back upon the unwanted pregnancies and messy divorces after hasty marriages of my classmates, I know I’ve made the right choice.
Yet things could’ve been vastly different for me—for us—if that night had taken a different course.
I shake my head to get that notion out of my mind.
“Whew, look at us, talking up a storm about the past. Catching up in the African bush after such a long time!”
He heaves a crate of supplies on top of another, grunting. He wipes his brow with his bare hand and looks at me. “Talking can be therapeutic,” he says sagely.
“Care to explain?” Now it’s my turn to question.
He kneels down and starts to sort and inventory all the things we’ve gathered.
“Well,” he begins, not looking at me, “you must get lonely out here sometimes.”
I gasp for air. “What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing!” he says promptly, as if he’s suddenly aware of the ambiguity of his question.
Are his ears burning red? Or is that the sun?
“You’re all by yourself,” he goes on. “In this remote village. Who shaves the barber? Who heals the doctor out here?”
“So you’ve become a philosopher,” I say.
He smiles openly this time. “You had me pegged for a soldier, hadn’t you?”
“You sure arrived here decked out like a mercenary,” I say, pointing at his equipment pile.
He mechanically puts his things in order.
“You mentioned training earlier,” I go on. “Where did you end up after high school then? Army? Marines?”
“No and no,” he says mysteriously.
“It’s just that you’re very orderly and organized,” I say, watching him check his equipment. “Most men’s tents are a mess.”
“You’ve seen many men’s tents, then?”
Damn, he’s as limber with his mind and words as he is with his muscles. This exchange is the most I’ve heard from him since he’s arrived.
But what is he thinking about me?
I cough and wave my hand in front of my face.
“No, only…in Doctors Without Borders,” I say. “Strictly business.”
He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. “Look, I’m here to protect you, and I know how. You give a lot. And there are people out there who will take even more than that. Who’ll take you. Right now, you just stand out for your…looks,” he says while looking at me from head to foot.
Being exposed to the scrutiny of his blue eyes makes me flustered all of a sudden.
“But if someone finds out where you come from, it can become dangerous for you.”
“How did you end up working in private security? Why do you know so much about…safety and protection?” I ask.
His eyes find the horizon again, and his body becomes rigid. “It’s a long story.”
“Made any friends along the way?”
I want to keep him going, I want to know how he’s been all these years, and he’s surprisingly open at the moment.
He makes that grimace again, as if he’s in pain.
He takes out the compass I found on the ground and looks at it wistfully. “Found some, lost some.”
He rubs a thumb over the metal cover to wipe away the dust. But his face quickly becomes the same inscrutable mask of beard and staring eyes.
He replaces the compass in his breast pocket and buttons it up.
Just like that, the talkative Ford’s gone. He stares at the horizon, the setting sun glinting in his eyes.
I want to make one last-ditch effort to keep the conversation going and get him to open up a little again.
“Well, in your line of work and the way you get around, you must’ve had a lot of girlfriends.”
There. In my haste, I’ve said the one thing out loud that’s been on my mind all this time.
He chuckles, but it sounds nervous to me, and he avoids my eyes.
“I guess like you, I buckled down and worked hard…a lot. And I strictly separate work and…personal relationships,” he says, his voice trailing off.
With that, he ducks inside his equipment tent and starts moving the gear, leaving me standing outside in the fading daylight.
Great. I’m highly unsatisfied with this encounter and have more questions than answers. He’s all cagey about his work and what he’s done after high school.
And to him, I’m just part of a job, strictly separated from his personal life.
Thanks a fucking bunch, Sten.