Betty was working in the small room she had allocated as her office in the state mansion.  She was on one of those rolls that veteran authors often achieve when they get a real bead on their subject, releasing all manner of creative juices.  Betty was heavily in to her new biography of Rhonda Rhino.  She tapped furiously on the keyboard of her computer, enthusiastically recording her insights into her current subject.  The door opened and Shane walked in. 

 

“Betty, it’s after three in the morning why aren’t you in bed?:

 

“I am really working on this book about Rhonda, Shane.  I have a lot of my best inspirations during these hours.”

 

“Betty, you have responsibilities and a family.  You can’t afford to live like some bohemian writer on the Left Bank in Paris.  Come to bed.”

 

“I have to lose myself in something, Shane.  It’s my best shot at keeping my sanity and I think you know what I’m referring to these days,” she said, angling her chair to face him and lighting a cigarette. 

 

“Betty, everything is going to be fine.  I love you and we have a family.  I woke up and you weren’t sleeping next to me……I felt the loss,” he said, as he stepped forward and lifted her from her chair. 

 

He stood tall, looking down at her then he took her hand and led her back to bed. 

 

---

 

            Imani Lyon sat in a defiant posture in Dr. Cate Ocelot’s office in the mental health center.  The adolescent cub could not have been tenser if a rod had been applied to her arse, thought Cate.  

 

“Why don’t we get acquainted by your telling me what’s bothering you, Imani,” suggested the psychiatrist. 

 

“I have these fucking spots all over my body – like my grandmother,” announced Imani in what resembled a hiss – sibilant and with a small amount of spit applied to the carpet. 

 

Cate unbuttoned her blouse as much as modesty allowed. 

 

“I have those too, Imani.  They haven’t stopped me,” laughed Cate.  “In fact I consider myself quite a dish and am dating one of the sexiest guys in the Mara.”

 

This was a stroke of genius on Cate’s part, breaking the ice with the peppery and petulant young female.  Imani relaxed and poured out her soul to Cate who let the cub speak on for more than the allotted time. 

Imani Janice Lyon wears the spots of her jaguar grandmother....

 

---

            Shane Simba drove with his Masai to the designated spot.  He hadn’t seen Jane, the lioness, since the day she spoke briefly to him at the Kenya Festival and he knew she was back from her hazardous trip to Iraq.  She had called him in his office.  She was ready to resume her writing on his authorized biography and wanted to know if he wanted to show her anymore points of interest in his life.  Emotions and an overwhelming desire to see her in a degree of solitude drove him to direct her once again to the back part of his pride territory.  The day was lovely and rain free.  Showers had graced the savanna the night before, cleansing and making green the landscape.  The air was fresh as he got out of the car and went to where she stood making notes under a fever tree of great beauty.  Its red blossoms were shed on the ground beneath her feet. 

 

“This tree suits you,” he said.. 

 

The Masai warriors stayed at a respectable distance knowing that Jane was a friend and no threat to the president. 

 

“Another beautiful day,” she said, smiling. 

 

“How could it be otherwise when I get a chance to see you, Janie?”

 

“What do you want to show me today?”

 

“I have a request for you.  I want to meet your pride.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just to see a bit more of your makeup, I suppose.”

 

“They are just a very ordinary and rather ragged group of lions – nothing at all to shout about, Shane.”

 

“They brought you into being.  That is something to shout about,” he said, touching her arm. 

 

“I have to think about it.  Do you have something special today?”

 

“Yes, let’s pay a visit to my Aunt Leander.  She’ll give us a drink.  I could use one.”

 

They walked at a reserved distance from each other and knocked on Leander’s door.  She opened only slightly which was her usual way.  Seeing her presidential nephew standing there with a strange female, she opened it so quickly she almost slammed her face. 

 

“Dear me, Shane, do come in and bring your friend.  You can bring the Masai in too.  I’m sure they could use a cool drink.”

 

The warriors chose to sit on Leander’s comfortable porch.  She brought out a pitcher of ice tea to cool them.  She directed Shane and Jane to her flowered couch.  She sat opposite them in a recliner.  She had made a pitcher of fresh martinis. 

 

“Aunt Leander, Jane is my authorized biographer.  She wants to milk you for some details,” laughed Shane. 

 

The threesome drank martinis, smoked cigarettes and spoke pleasantly and with a great deal of humor of Shane as a small cub.  The time passed quickly, the African sun slowly beginning to sink beyond the Ngare Hills.  Shane stood to go, taking Jane’s paw and helping her from the couch.  He kissed his aunt on the cheek as did Jane.  They went down the steps of the porch followed by the Masai.  This time they walked paw in paw to their cars. 

 

Leander closed her front door and went to her kitchen for more martinis. 

 

“Lord, Shane loves that lioness.  He really does,” she said aloud to the empty room.

 

---

 

            Sarah Lee Simba stood in her sister’s kitchen, paws on her broad hips.  She was in a proper snit as only she could be.  She held herself straight with a pained expression on her face. 

 

“I saw Shane come over here.  He just bypassed me completely.  And who was that lioness with him?” snarled Sarah Lee. 

“What do you do, Sarah Lee, just sit looking out your window at my house all day?” growled Leander who was in no mood for her sister’s bullshit. 

 

“No, mam, I do not.  But when my son comes and visits you instead of me, I notice.  He is my son, you know, Leander.”

 

“Now that he’s the president, he is, I notice.  When he was not that, you didn’t give a rat’s ass whether you saw him or not.”

 

“Who is that lioness?  He just let his monkey wife have his cub and now he’s messing with the type he should have messed with all along.”

 

“She’s writing his biography is all,” stated Leander, lighting a cigarette.

 

“Yeah and what else is she writing?”

 

“Sit down, Sarah Lee; take a load of your feet.  You’re acting foolish for nothing.”

 

---

 

“Jesus H. Christ,” roared Claude, the lion.  “Jane done brung the president out here, Sally.”

 

The lioness got up to see her daughter exiting a car with the lion president and his Masai guards.   Jane walked ahead of Shane Simba.  The guards followed him.  The pride members, hearing the excitement in their leader’s voice began to waken from their various afternoon snoozes.  They were all standing when Jane, leading Shane, approached them. 

 

“Dad and Mom, this is President Simba.  He wants to meet you all,” explained Jane to the mind boggled group of lions. 

 

Shane stuck out a paw in proffered greeting.  Jane’s father, Claude, whose vision had never been the best, didn’t respond.  Her mother, Sally, did. 

 

“We got some cold water if you want it, Mr. Simba,” offered Sally.  Several cubs gathered to get a better look at the lion president of Kenya.

 

“I’d like that, uh, mam,” said Shane.  Since they had no last name, he was at a loss as to what to call her. 

 

“Mom’s name is Sally,” said Jane, putting a paw on his arm.

 

They sat under a tree where some lionesses brought them water. 

 

“We can’t hunt no more,” said Claude, apropos of nothing short of having the president’s ear. 

 

“You never did no hunting anyhow, Claude.  All your lionesses did it for you.  You just ate,” corrected Sally. 

 

Shane laughed, “That’s always been the way of male lions, Miss Sally. 

 

This met with an approving look from Claude.  They talked pleasantly and of nothing except for the moments when Claude would interject his displeasure at the ways of the new Kenya. 

 

“We got them food stamps,” groaned Claude.  “I guess we can thank you for them.  At least the lionesses can go to that Scar fellow’s store and get meat with them.”

 

“That was President Ralph Lyon who started that process,” corrected Shane. 

 

“Yeah and he’s the one that done told us we can’t bring down them wildebeest standing over there a few yards away,” grumbled Claude. 

 

“Dad, don’t use up Shane, uh, President Simba’s time with your carping,” instructed Jane. 

 

Claude’s eyesight was not the best but his ears were superb.  He caught the segue from Shane to President Simba.  His ears perked up.  The lionesses were beginning to drag items from a rusty ice box.  It seemed to be chunks of meat in very primitive form.  Shane stood up. 

 

“I’ve got to get back but it was very nice meeting you.  Your daughter is writing my biography.  I wanted to know a bit of her life too.  Is there anything you need?” asked Shane. 

 

Claude was about to list some items he could use when Jane stopped him with a gentle paw to his lips.

 

“You come back sometimes.  We been so tired of Janie bringing them leopards and cheetahs to see us, we’re plain glad to see a lion,” said Sally, in a graciousness that Jane had never seen in her mother in the years she was bringing home ‘all them leopards and cheetahs’.

 

“I’d love to come back, Miss Sally,” said Shane giving the lioness a gentle pat to her back. 

 

The lionesses tittered behind them.  Shane and Jane got in the back seat of his car with the Masai driver and guard in the front.  The official Rolls slowly pulled from the territory, its seal of Kenya in bold relief on the door.

 

“She’s sleeping with him, Sally.  That’s her male lion,” said Claude. 

 

“I believe he is, Claude.”

 

“Well she’s never gonna marry him.  He’s got him a wife and passel of kids,” stated Claude.  “Let’s eat. I’m need to go back to sleep.”

 

---

 

 

Shane and Jane on his pride territory....

 

 

“Your pride is a regular, old fashioned bunch of lions that got caught up in this new age of ours and are having a rough time of it, Janie.”

 

They were on the Simba turf where Jane had left her SUV.  They were under the fever tree in the waning afternoon light. 

 

“Your pride is in a much more advanced state of evolution than mine,” giggled Jane.

 

His head was in her lap, he having decided that he could trust his Masai with any secrets he might have.  After all, they were the former lion hunters who were accustomed to seeing a male lion with a lioness. 

 

“Believe me, Janie, the Simbas were the same except for the alcohol factor that yours don’t seem to have.  Roy Lee was the district sot until Bertram Baboon made him a film idol and my dad would drink until he fell out,” laughed Shane.  “We were primitive and very disreputable back then.  I have an aunt who calls herself Goosey.  She is in that trailer just beyond that termite mound, probably drunk as a road lizard as we speak.”

 

Jane threw back her head and laughed. 

 

“I wish I could kiss you,” she said. 

 

“Do it.”

 

She leaned down and gave him a lingering kiss.  The Masai could have cared less. 

 

“I want to do something for you and your pride, Janie.  I know they are struggling.”

 

“No, Shane.  I bring them things from time to time.  They are fine.”

 

The sun sank lower and reddened the sky behind the hills.  Shane rose to his feet. 

 

“God, how I hate to leave you,” he moaned. 

 

“I will always be here, Shane.”

 

“I have to make a trip to Botswana next week.  Will you cover it?”

 

“Is Betty going with you?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’ll cover it then.”

 

            He saw her to her car and watched as she rolled onto the skimpy road.  He stood for a bit before getting in his own car and returning to the mansion. 

 

---

 

            Staci Simba realized that her father and stepmother were clashing a great deal these days.  She couldn’t fathom the reason.  Her dad was home each evening and happily engaging with his children and Betty’s.  He would call for Solly the moment he arrived in the mansion.  He would play with him until Solly’s green eyes drooped and the nanny put him to bed.  Betty would often skip the dinner hour, having a tray brought to her office where she was writing her tome on the life of Rhonda Rhino.  At the sporting club, Shane would play tennis with Stacy or Lewis Lyon before a round of golf with the Lyons or Sloane and the Cougars.  Staci was baffled as to the tension between her father and Betty. 

 

    This particular evening he arrived and was given his Scotch by the servants.  He called for Solly as usual.  He sat in the family room watching the news with Staci, Joshua, Sean and Jason.  He was holding Solly in his lap when Betty came in. 

 

“Where have you been?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

 

“Working with my biographer,” he announced, lighting his own.

 

“And that consists of?” spat Betty. 

 

“Just that, Betty, taking her to my pride territory and telling her about myself; just as you did when you were writing Ralph Lyon’s biography.  By the way, the nanny says you haven’t seen Solly all day.”

 

“I am trying to get this book written.  This is my project for your precious Kenya.”

 

“That’s fine and good, Betty, but you have a new cub that needs your attentions.  I will not let him be raised without a mother’s affections and suffer the sense of loneliness and despair I have known off and on for so many years as a result of a mother who didn’t give a rip.”

 

“You are steeped in pomposity these days, Shane.  It’s all about fatherhood and Kenya.  I never knew you were such a tight ass.”

 

He got up and threw his glass against the fireplace.  It shattered, shards flew in the air and dropped to the hearth and carpet.  The children, realizing this would be a Kodak moment that they didn’t care to share, left the room.  Only Staci remained, her eyes filled with sadness. 

 

“What the hell is wrong with you these days, Betty?” he roared.

 

“You are distancing yourself from me, Shane.  I can sense it.  You’re just not there anymore.”

 

“I believe I have been here every night, taking meals with our children that you miss for the most part, writing your goddam book.”

 

“It is your emotional distance from me personally that I can’t take.”

 

“I am unable to give you the microscopic attention you require 24/7, day and night, night and day.  I run a fucking country, Betty.”

 

“Oh yes, your favorite cry, I run a country.”

 

“My presidency is not a figment of my imagination, Betty.  It’s very real. You married me when I was the vice president.  You knew damn well where I was heading.  Now, you can’t take it because it means showering less attention on your ego riddled self.”

 

“Me?  Ego riddled?” she screamed.

 

“Yes, you, Betty.  You are one big ego trip – see Betty write a best seller, catch a high profile husband, birth a cub - Betty on and about Betty, always.”

 

“Fuck you!” she screamed, taking an ashtray and throwing it at him. 

 

It hit him on the chest and fell to the floor, scattering butts and ashes everywhere.  He stepped forward and took her blouse front in his paw, his face inches from hers. 

 

“You are skating on thin ice, Betty.  You’d better wake up and smell the coffee before it’s too late to do so.”

 

He stormed from the room.  He left the mansion and had the driver take him to a deserted place in the bush.  There he sat in the car and wept.  He wasn’t the only one.  Staci went to her room and cried herself to sleep.