Problems with People by David Guterson Read Free Book Online Page B

key,” he said. “There is no way for me to open the gate. Seven o’clock,” he added.
    “At seven you close and lock the gate,” said his sister. “And you close it and lock it with what, Nelson?”
    “Key.”
    “So you have a key.”
    “No.”
    “Then how did you lock the gate?”
    “A woman comes walking,” Nelson said. “She lives there.” He pointed down the road. “She comes with the key to lock the gate, and then she goes away.”
    “Five minutes ago.”
    “Yes.”
    “So she’s five minutes down the road, walking. That’s all. Five minutes. So go after her in your jeep and get the key.” Again, his sister shook the money and pushed the bills farther through the gate.
    “No,” said Nelson. “There’s nothing I can do.” Then he smiled and laughed in a way that might have meant that they were invited to smile and laugh, too.
    “Not funny, Nelson,” said his sister.
    She made suggestions, and he couldn’t tell if the way she was speaking to Nelson—as if he were a child, or someone who could be ordered around, badgered, and belittled—was something that had become natural to her after living in South Africa for thirty-three years, or an exception to her ongoing rules of behavior, goaded by exasperation, weariness, and cancer. “Do you have a phone, Nelson?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. So why didn’t he call the woman with the key? What about calling the park administration, or some kind of dispatcher, who could then call a ranger, who could then show up with the key? Wasn’t that obvious? Surely they couldn’t be the first park visitors who’d come late to the gate but still needed to get out, who couldn’t spend the night camped in their car waiting for morning. This same problem must have happened before. There must be, at Pilanesberg—a major park, heavily visited—provisions for late exits. “Okay,” said Nelson. “I can phone.”
    He went back into the guardhouse. Under the stars, by the gate, his sister sighed bitterly. “Typical,” she said. “Everything’s mismanaged, a mess, in South Africa. Nobody knows what they’re doing.”
    There was a damp, night smell now, alongside the smell of the veldt he’d gotten familiar with that afternoon. He suggested his sister shut off her headlights and kill her car engine; she said no, that probably wasn’t a good idea, because of thelions. He didn’t believe lions, or any other predator, would attack them by the gate, but since shutting off the car engine wasn’t his decision he didn’t argue with her about it. Instead, they passed the time talking about Nelson until he returned and said, “Okay, it’s better now.”
    “What does that mean?” his sister asked. “What did they say? Who did you talk to?”
    “Someone is coming with a key.”
    “When?”
    “A person is coming,” said Nelson.
    “When?”
    Nelson shrugged apologetically.
    They waited for half an hour. There was nothing to do. He took pictures of Nelson—loud flashes—who posed for him, beyond the mesh of the gate, with martial gravity. His sister asked Nelson how old he was—twenty-eight—where he was from—Venda—if he was married—yes, to a woman in Venda—if he had children—four—if he liked his work—no, but it was better than nothing, which is what he’d done in Venda. “I would like to talk to you about a job,” said Nelson, out of the blue. “Is there a job I could have, where you live, something I could do, to make more money?”
    “Aha,” said his sister. “Can you type at a keyboard?” The answer was no. “Can you read English?” A little. “How far did you go in school?” Just a little. “What skills do you have?” None, said Nelson. “So why don’t you go to school to learn computers? That would be a valuable skill to have, Nelson.” Because school cost money. “Okay,” said his sister, pushing her handful of bills again. “You call a second time and get whoeverhas a key to come here right now, and then