At eight o’clock that evening, both Dawson and Christine were spent. They had passed some of the afternoon with Gifty and her brother, and she had pulled off a coup by suggesting the boys stay with them in Joe’s house until the guesthouse was in order. This time, as tiresome as Gifty could be with her “divide and conquer” maneuverings with his children, Dawson appreciated the offer. In any case, the boys were already entranced by Uncle Joe’s stunning high-definition, curved widescreen TV in a living room about as big as the entire guesthouse. Joe’s car rental business was evidently flourishing.
After leaving the boys, Dawson and Christine had trekked to Ketejia Market to buy household supplies including the all-too-important buckets. Then it was back home to clear out the inevitable bits and pieces left behind by the workers. For now, all the Dawsons’ clothes would have to be arranged on a makeshift countertop until they obtained some drawer chests and wardrobes. Their financial reserves were draining fast, and until Christine found a job, hers were in danger of being completely wiped out.
Both of them had had their rejuvenating bucket baths and were lying in a state of collapse on the unforgiving foam mattress of their narrow bed, Christine with her back to the wall and Dawson resting his head on her lap.
“It’s a long time since my muscles have ached this much,” she said weakly.
“Me too.”
“It occurs to me that the kids have really gotten off lightly,” Christine commented.
Darko snorted without much energy. “Spoiled, those children. When I was a kid, Cairo and I did all the cleaning up around the house, and if we didn’t, Dad would cane us.”
“Okay,” she murmured, her eyes closed. “Go back to the Dark Ages then. I won’t be joining you.”
He grunted.
“And anyway,” Christine said, with just enough energy to raise her head and open her eyes, “what do you mean they are spoiled? We spoil them. You and me.”
“All right,” he conceded.
“In fact, I think you’re worse than me,” she declared. “You love your children a bit too much.”
He found that funny and began to laugh languidly.
“What’s so amusing?” she asked, her eyes closed again.
“I’m not sure. It’s just the way you said it.”
She rubbed his head. “You need a haircut.”
“I know. The boys do too.”
“We’ll have to find a good barber in Kumasi.”
She slipped her hand inside his V-neck to rub his chest and he flinched.
“What’s wrong?” she asked curiously, and at the same time she felt the small bandage on his chest. “What’s this?” She snatched up his T-shirt. “My God, Dark, what happened?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, trying to tug his shirt back down.
“What do you mean, nothing?” she cried, pulling it right back up.
“It was a guy we were trying to arrest,” Dawson said. “He swung at me with a machete.”
“Ewurade!” She stared at him in disbelief. “I mean, he could have decapitated you!”
“I don’t think so.” Dawson thought about it for a moment, and then started to laugh again.
“I’m glad you think it’s so amusing,” Christine said in annoyance.
“Do you know how difficult it is to cut someone’s head off?” Dawson said.
“You know what I mean,” she said huffily. “Does it hurt? Who stitched it?”
“A doctor at Obuasi Hospital.”
“And I suppose you were squirming like a baby, as usual.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Christine made a noise with her mouth and they began to giggle with whatever strength they had left.
“Anyway, how is the case going?” she asked.
“If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to close it soon.” He propped himself up. “I want your opinion on something.”
Dawson told her about the Okohs, the tragedy of Amos, and finally, Yaw and his peculiar inability, or apparent inability, to utter a word after his brother’s death. “What do you think?” he asked. “Fake or real?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Well, it’s very difficult to not talk if you really can.”
“So you think it’s genuine?”
“I think he is talking to a chosen few and pretending to others.”
“Oh, really? Interesting. Why do you say that?”
“I believe he really was in a state of shock when the brother died and lost his ability to speak. But now that’s past and he’s trying to punish his father. If his dad hadn’t forced Yaw’s brother to work on the farm, Amos would never have had the fatal encounter with the Chinese guy, and he’d still be alive today.”
“Ah, I see,” Dawson said, nodding. “I thought rather that it was guilt that was eating Yaw up and that he’s punishing himself.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type,” Christine said.
Dawson rolled on his back again and got comfortable against her. “You might have given me an idea.”
She smiled. “Let me know if it works.”
“I will.”
They were quiet for a while.
“Christine?”
“Yes, love.”
“Do you ever wish you got married to that doctor?”
She looked at him quizzically. “Nothing like that has ever entered my mind. What in the world made you ask that question, Dark?”
“Well, today it occurred to me, if you had been with that doctor, you probably would never be dealing with all this nonsense with the house and a place to stay and all that.”
“No,” she said. “This is our life. I love you and the boys, and whatever we have to go through together, so be it. No regrets, ever, ever.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good.”
“Silly boy.” She gave him a light but reproachful slap on his forehead. “Anyway, I heard he died.”
“What?” Dawson lifted his head. “Who died?”
“The doctor. He died a couple months ago.”
“Oh,” Dawson said. “Poor guy. Wow, life is strange.”
He thought about the ironies of existence for a while, and then realized that Christine had fallen asleep and was snoring with her head back and her mouth half open. My wife, he thought, shaking his head. To this day, she refuses to accept that she snores.
Dawson got up and gently repositioned her on her side of the bed. She rolled over and muttered something unintelligible.
He smiled. “Yes, my love. Whatever you say.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sunday morning, Christine went to an eight o’clock church service with Gifty, Hosiah, and Uncle Joe’s wife, while Sly, who was Muslim, stayed home with Joe. By then, Dawson and Chikata had already arrived at the Dunkwa Police Station. Dawson asked Constable Kobby to bring Yaw out to the interview room.
Dawson had hoped he would see a glimmer of light in his eyes, but none was there. Yaw was sullen and kept his eyes down to stare morosely at the table in the interview room. Dawson feared that he was now descending into deep depression, which would not help the circumstances.
Dawson had decided to have Chikata start the interview. Who knew? Perhaps Chikata could get a response out of Yaw.
“How are you this morning, Yaw?” Chikata asked after cautioning the suspect again. “Mr. Yaw,” Chikata said a little more sharply. “I hope you have decided to talk to us today. Do you understand that if you don’t say anything, we will send you back to your cell?”
Yaw seemed unmoved. Dawson thought about what Christine had said last night.
He leaned forward. “You have punished your father enough. He is suffering as much as you, and he doesn’t need any more pain. I know you can talk. It’s only that you don’t want to talk to him. You know as well as anybody else that he didn’t cause Amos’s death. Did he send Amos onto the bridge? No. Please, take away some of his pain. Eh? Yaw, what do you say?”