“There's a bike hanging on the wall in the garage,” said Andre excitedly.
“You want to ride it? I'll get it down for you.” Jared headed into the garage, where the bike hung on big yellow hooks, but Andre beat him to it, lifting the bike easily, using his stumps. The bike had foot brakes and no gears, so it could be ridden without hands, a skill Jared had never mastered.
Andre rode back and forth on the long, flat driveway. You couldn't tell he was handless; it just looked as if he'd folded his arms over his chest. He used the longer stub to turn the handle.
“I'll walk the bike downhill for you and you can ride around town, where it's flat,” suggested Jared.
Andre stared down the hill. He swallowed. “Thank you. I will go by myself.”
He's older than my father, thought Jared. And scared of going alone. And brave enough to try. And who am I, who have never known fear, to say there's nothing to be afraid of? “Take my cell phone, Andre. If you need me, you can call.” He was handing it to Andre when he realized there was a reason for the English expression “handing.” It took hands. “I guess you'd have to go into a store or something,” said Jared lamely, “and ask them to call for you.”
“I will be fine.” Andre pushed off, managed the first curve and was out of sight.
Alake knew well what was inside the boxes. A shadow of death. Alake knew all there was to know about death. Because on that day when Victor had thrust his machine gun at her, Alake had not taken it.
It fell to the ground. The impact made it shoot by itself. The weapon did a horrifying little dance as it emptied. The child soldiers giggled when one of the soldiers was hit and blood spurted.
Victor picked up the gun. He wrapped Alake's fingers around it so she was holding it the right way. His thick yellow fingernails cut into her flesh. “You want your sister to live?”
Of course she wanted her sister to live.
Victor closed his hand over hers and aimed the machine gun at the teachers. “Pull on this.”
Just preparing dinner was an event.
Celestine had never used an indoor stove. Had never heard of a microwave.
Mom had to teach Celestine that the black glass cooktop would get hot just from twisting a little knob, that the pan had to be centered on this thing called a burner, that a Teflon pan could be touched only by a rubber spoon.
Mattu could not get the concept that he could slice onions and celery only on the cutting board and not on the granite counter. “Then what is this surface for?” he asked.
“It's just for resting things on,” explained Jared, and even to Jared, this sounded pretty stupid.
Alake did nothing.
“Alake, help set the table,” said Mopsy, who loved setting the table, another example of her maddening tendencies. What kind of person loved setting a table? A three-year-old person, maybe. But here was Mopsy, excitedly folding napkins. “Do what I do, Alake,” she cried. “See how the forks go on the left?”
“Peel the potatoes,” Mom ordered Jared.
“Mom, if you have to do that much work to get food, skip it and boil noodles instead.”
“It's a teaching moment,” said his mother. “Show Mattu how.”
Two potatoes later and Jared just wanted to show the Amabo family how to move out.
Time was slipping away.
Thirty-one days were left.
Victor was driven to his first day of work. Although his paperwork stated he had computer expertise, Victor had never seen a computer. The company wanted to be generous and found him a job in maintenance instead.
Victor had not come to America to vacuum carpets.
The first day of having Alake at school had been fun for Mopsy. But Alake did not improve. Mopsy's friends drifted away. At home, she got no help from her mom or dad. The Finches had turned into a weird, complex family of eight, with Dad always at work or a meeting about Brady Wall and Mom being Teacher of the Year for Celestine and Andre.
The medical committee was working on fake hands for Andre. Mopsy hoped the Amabos would be in their own apartment before Andre got hooks. Then Andre showed her a photograph. His future hand looked more like a plastic glove for doing dishes, one less worry for Mopsy.
Celestine started her job cleaning bathrooms at the motel. Mom worried because Celestine didn't know the difference between toilet cleansers and champagne. But the manager shrugged. “Our training program allows for that. She'll be fine.”
On her first day, Celestine learned to fold the end of the toilet paper roll into a V. Jared and Mopsy laughed hysterically. “Normal people don't fold, Celestine,” said Mopsy. “You have just acquired an utterly useless skill.”
“That's what the girls told me.”
“What girls?”
“The ones I work with,” said Celestine. “They speak little English; instead, mostly Spanish, which I can't understand. But Bob says in one month, I might very well be the one in charge, because I can talk to the guests. I have to work on my accent. Tonight when we watch TV, I will repeat out loud everything they say.”
Mopsy giggled. “Better pick a nice channel.”
The doorbell rang. The Amabos fell apart again, and even though it was just Kirk Crick, they did not calm down. They had no problems, they assured him. Everything was perfect, the Finches were the best family on earth. “You never need to come again,” said Celestine firmly.
“No complaint brought me here,” said Kirk Crick. “I'm just saying hi. And even if you don't need me, Kara or Drew might.”
Andre and Celestine vanished into their bedroom. Mattu fled upstairs, claiming to have homework. Even Alake disappeared.
Mopsy didn't think Mom or Dad needed Kirk Crick, but certainly Alake did. But Before Mopsy could list Alake's problems, her mother said, “Celestine's job is not fulfilling. There's no intellectual satisfaction in cleaning a bathroom. Celestine is so sharp. I'm hunting down employment that will satisfy her inner—”
“Stop,” said Kirk Crick. “Celestine Amabo has never heard of job satisfaction. All she wants are walls to keep her family safe from murder, and food on the table. Let her handle her own life.”
Mom listed the million things she was doing for the Africans and the million more she had planned. Kirk Crick, far from being impressed and wanting Mom to take over the world, said, “Back off, Kara. Celestine and Andre have to manage on their own as soon as we find them an apartment. You are encouraging them to cling.”
This was Mopsy's cue. “Alake isn't even clinging,” she said to Kirk Crick. “If I didn't make Alake eat, she'd starve to death as if she were still in Africa. There's something wrong here.”
But Kirk Crick didn't stop talking, let alone listen. He acted as if he got a salary to yell at Mom for being a good person. By the time he left, Mom was trying not to cry.
How could Mopsy add to Mom's worries by pointing out all that was wrong with Alake?
Alake was Mopsy's responsibility.
Sharing the bedroom was not as bad as Jared had anticipated, although Mattu liked to count things—say, the number of shoes, boots, sneakers, sandals and socks Jared owned, and comment, “You have many possessions.”
Like it was Jared's problem that Africa was dirt poor and people had to go barefoot.
What was his problem was that the bedroom had begun to smell.
Jared himself had smelly feet; he was used to smelly. But this was a different kind of smelly. Jared sniffed around, trying to locate the source.
A day later the room had gone beyond smelly into foul.
“What's rotting in here, Mattu?” he demanded. “Don't look innocent. I didn't stink up the room.”
Trapped, Mattu knelt in front of the long, shallow closet Jared had partly cleared out to give Mattu space. From the dusty back of the closet, Mattu drew out a dinner plate piled with the previous week's chicken and rice. There was no plastic wrap over the food.
“You can eat all you want, Mattu,” said Jared finally. “But you can't store food in the closet. You have
to store it in the refrigerator. That stuff is garbage now.”
It was not garbage to Mattu. He did not surrender his plate.
“So here's the deal,” said Jared, taking control of the plate. “We don't tell Mom you're hoarding rotting food in the closet. She'd go nuts that we might get rats or bugs.”
“I have not noticed rats or bugs,” admitted Mattu. “But of course they are here, eating their share.”
“Don't say that around Mom!” yelled Jared. “I'm throwing this away, Mattu. You get hungry, you raid the refrigerator like a normal person.”
The next day was unseasonably warm. Mom took everybody into the village to have post office lessons, ATM lessons, library lessons and coffee shop lessons.
“Not me,” said Jared. Throwing away rotted dinner had filled his whole charity slot. He was done with teaching refugees.
“I need you,” said his mother, and her voice shook.
Mom never needed anybody. She was the toughest person he knew, tougher than Dad. Then he thought, She doesn't have Dad right now.
Jared was suddenly afraid. Suddenly aware that Dad wasn't ever home anymore. The house was so busy and chaotic that Jared had barely noticed how his own father was missing. Mom was carrying the whole refugee thing.
Mom drove down into the village and parallel parked, an art Jared yearned to conquer. He decided to ask Dad about driving lessons—dropping hints about how they needed Dad at home.
Or maybe not. Because what if Dad had reached his limit? What if he just couldn't stand any more of Mopsy dancing and Jared moaning and Mom volunteering and Brady Wall stealing and crowds of Africans in need? What if Dad stayed away?
When they wrapped up at the post office, Mopsy wanted to show off the ocean. Jared would have driven to the town beach, a few miles away, where there was soft sand and picnic tables. Instead, Mopsy led them down a narrow lane between the antiques shop and the real estate office. All around were marinas, shuttered for the winter, hundreds of boats sitting up on props, shrink-wrapped in brilliant blue plastic. Even to Jared's eye, it was eerie.
Sticking out into the bay was a man-made breakwater—huge rocks dumped to make a wall about a hundred yards long. The rocks were very uneven, and at some point the top of the wall had been cemented over so that people who wanted to fish or walk out and admire the view had a better chance of staying upright. But salt water and New England winters were not kind to cement. By midwinter, the cement had rotted through and the rocks were icy and dangerous.
“In summer I like to swim off the far end,” said Mopsy, trotting forward. “It's deep. Thirty or forty feet.”
Alake refused to get anywhere near the water, never mind walk out on the wall. Mattu stuck his hand in the water. He gasped. “How can you swim in something that cold?”
“You swim in summer,” said Jared. “It gets warmer.” Actually, the water never got warm, just less cold.
Halfway out, Mopsy took a fall. Jared heard her knee whack the stones. She gave the kind of whimper that meant she wanted to sob but was trying to be silent and brave. She limped back. One plus—the Amabos were never going to get anywhere near the water again. They galloped back to the car.
When Mom started the engine, Andre watched longingly. He would never drive. Probably in Africa he hadn't given that a thought, but in America, where you vaulted into and out of the car every five minutes, Andre must have been painfully aware of what he would never do.
“The Nelsons are going to donate their old Honda,” Mom announced. “Isn't that great? After you get your license, Celestine, you can drive yourself to work and pick the kids up at school and go to the mall on your own.”
“I don't want to drive!”
“Nonsense. The grocery store is miles away. Your motel is even farther. We've got volunteer drivers, but they can't keep it up forever.”
“No! I can't do it! I can't learn to drive. It's too much.”
She had had to learn a million things already. Maybe learning to drive was too much for Celestine, at least this month.
“I know! I know!” cried Mopsy, clapping. “Mattu can be the driver instead!”
Andre and Celestine stared at Mattu as if they had not previously been acquainted.
“That is brilliant,” said Mom. “Mattu—ready for a lesson?”
Jared came to a boil. If some refugee from Africa got to learn how to drive and was even given a free car, while he, Jared—forced to share a stinking room with him!—didn't get to drive…
I hate these people. I want them to leave and I want my father home.
But when his father did come home, Jared could not get him to understand how queer everything was.
“I'm over my head with the whole Brady Wall thing,” said his father. “This is your mother's project. Just deal.”
THE DREAM NEVER CHANGED BECAUSE the truth never changed.
Alake stood with her slaughtered family on one side and the horrifying laughter of boy soldiers on the other. In her hands was a machine gun.
She loved her teachers. But she loved her sister.
Her sister's eyes were wide with fear and shock. Her teachers' eyes were wide with fear and shock.
Do you want your sister to live?
This was the choice.
Alake pulled the trigger. Her teachers were flung to the ground in a mist of blood. Victor took his weapon back. He was laughing. He shot Alake's sister anyway.
The most terrible thing about that terrible morning was that Alake no longer remembered her sister's name. Her sister's name evaporated like her town, for Victor left nothing standing: no people, no buildings, no animals, no crops. When he was done, Victor took Alake along.
She deserved whatever happened now, because she was as evil as any of them. She had killed two people.
Early that afternoon, they crossed paths with a convoy of peacekeepers. Victor and the grown men with him melted into the bush. Alake and the boy soldiers were rounded up and taken away. What were the authorities to do with killers who were only eight or ten or twelve years old?
The killer children were isolated in a corner of a refugee camp, although the corner was not necessary. Everybody knew who they were. Not their names, nobody cared about their names, but what they had done. They were shunned. They could watch other children play. There were thousands of children, playing kickball and tag and soccer. But Alake and her group could not join in. Sometimes a boy tried, and then all the regular children would vanish and the child soldiers would be alone again.
Alone, they could not play. They did not know how.
Counselors came. We want to help you, they said. You are filled with grief and anger and shame, they said.
This was true, but the children did not respond. They were beyond help.
Once a missionary came.
Alake knew that she was a Christian, but even God was gone, without a trace, like her sister and her speech.
The killer boys had no women to pound their share of the grain, so they did it themselves, and after they made porridge, they left a portion for Alake. If they got rice, they gave her a share. Why? She was not really one of them; she had spent only a few hours in their troop.
After a long time Alake realized there was a school, and she crept toward it. She did not risk sitting under the shade of the awning with the regular children, children who deserved school. But because the teacher yelled every lesson so that students at the back of the crowd could hear, Alake also could hear. But she could not hold on to lessons any more than she had held on to her sister.
Alake was dead. It was just that she had a heartbeat.
Alake knew why Celestine and Andre were afraid of the dark. Celestine and Andre knew what was out there.
People like Alake.
Yet again the refugee committee met at the Finches' house. Somebody had volunteered to take the Amabos out for the evening to see their first movie and taste their first popcorn. Jared wasn't sure this would work. Pizza had been a bust. Nobody would take a second
bite. A seafood restaurant had been worse. Nobody would take a first bite.
Mopsy went along for the movie, filled with joy, of course, because it didn't take much with Mopsy, but Jared stayed for the meeting. He wanted to say what worried him, but he didn't want to sound racist or alarmist or just plain mean.
Mrs. Lame took charge, which depressed everybody, because she had so much to say about nothing. No surprise to Jared, she had been online and found a site where other African refugees were corresponding with each other. “When I took Andre to the doctor,” she said, “I discussed the Internet and useful Web sites, but he simply would not pick up on it. I'm not sure how intelligent Andre is.”
“Andre is sharp as a tack,” said Mom. “It's not a question of intelligence. They've made it clear they don't want to deal with the past. Leave it alone.”
Mrs. Lame was not the kind of woman who left things alone. “I printed out the best pages,” she said, waving them around. “Celestine seems smarter than the others. I suggest you explain this to her. Furthermore, I'm worried about the daughter. What are we to do about this continuing silence?”
Perhaps the Mrs. Lames of the world were good for something after all. Now Jared wouldn't have to be the one to bring it up.
“Alake just needs time,” said his mom.
In what way would time solve the problem that Alake's own parents didn't care about her?
But Alake was not of general interest. “According to my records,” warned somebody, “at least four times a day, one of us is driving these people somewhere. When are they going to drive themselves? The days are turning into weeks and they don't make any progress. Where is the gas money coming from, anyway?”
“We have a separate refugee account, which was generously funded by the congregation,” said Dr. Nickerson. “Intact,” he added, before they could bring up Brady Wall.
“I think we should restrict clothing purchases to discount stores and thrift shops,” said another person, which opened a heated argument. Did refugees deserve good, expensive new clothes, like the American kids, or were any old used clothes fine?
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