He remembered that his farm life began at five o’clock each morning, starting the morning after he arrived. Mending fences, bailing hay and tending to his aunt’s large garden along with the many other things involved in keeping a farm going, kept him busy and tired each day. The work was hard, but he enjoyed it, for the most part, knowing it helped two people he loved and knowing it made his parents proud, The mornings were actually the hardest part, getting up while it was still dark, the chill of his room, the window open as there was no air-conditioning, rolling up in the thin blankets and the nubby quilt, shivering, thinking of how nice another hour in bed would be, hearing his aunt in the kitchen, the muffled bangs and crackle of paper, the smell of coffee and the small resentment of relenting to this ritual of forced responsibility. Lying in bed back then, he thought he knew what responsibility meant, now he knew it was meaningless. Growing up, he believed, was taught, that being an adult was a state, an age that bore a title earned through the ritual of progression and effective development. It was, he came to realize, only the experience of being an older human being. Nothing accomplished so much as having survived day after day, accumulating enough experience to successfully dodge misery and pain, to find a bit of happiness among the harsh times and disappointments. Lying there, he never realized the importance of that moment, or of any of the moments that had passed since his youth. His life seemed like water to him, running through his hands, sliding away, the clear and sweet, the painful and embarrassing flowing freely, out of any control. As much as he tried to remember the important moments, they were often as vague as his dreams, only not as frightening. His life passed without his permission. He thought his life had been rude to him, in spite of all his good fortune, like someone handing him a hundred-dollar bill and then shoving him to the ground. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way.
He had a large bedroom all to himself for the first two years and then shared that bedroom with one of his cousins, Rick, fellow summer laborer. He remembered Rick, blond, slim and smart but without direction. Rick was his aunt’s favorite; she protected him from his uncle at those times when Rick’s day-dreaminess got in the way of the work. When Hanley was in college, Rick was killed in Vietnam, shot in Saigon by another American soldier, a kid from Stockton, California, drunk or stoned, carrying a cheap, throw-away 32-caliber he thought he needed for protection. Rick had looked at the prostitute the kid from Stockton was feeling up at the bar and was shot for that look, one month to the day from setting foot in the country.
He still remembered much about that time, remembered that first morning, standing on gravel, shivering in the early morning light, mist obscuring the fence lines and the cattle, lowing out their presence, calling to each other and to the house, getting some reassurance from the other cattle lowing back and from the echoes coming back to them from the buildings. He stood, head down, staring at his new boots, a gift from his parents that year and each year thereafter, boots that would last through the fall and be discarded sometime around Christmas. The boots were always a reddish brown, with a low gloss to them, the toes of these boots that first morning showing a beading of moisture from the dew. Almost daily, his uncle would remind Hanley that hard work was the glue that held the world together. His uncle, lean and farmer-strong, had a thin face, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, their effect heightened by his deep tan which never faded, even in the winter when Hanley would see him again at Christmas. They liked each other, but showed little affection at first, but grew closer as Hanley became a teenager. His uncle began his discussions about responsibility that first summer. Over the years, especially the last two summers before Hanley left for college, his uncle talked a great deal about what he called the debt.
***
“Did you finish fixing the wire down by Indian Rock?” his uncle asked.
“Yes sir, it’s fixed.”
“Will it hold?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did Rickie help you?”
“Yes, he helped me.”
“Did he? Hmmm. I’m not sure who is worse, you or your aunt. You’re not doing him any favors, covering for him the way you do. I can’t do anything about your aunt, but I might change you if I work hard enough.”
“Oh, he’s all right. His mind is on other things, that’s all.”
“I’m aware of that. Can’t say where his mind goes, but I know it isn’t around when I need it. He’ll never be a giver, just a taker.” His uncle frowned, as he wound a new pull-cord around the wheel that sat on top of his lawnmower, the cord Hanley would be pulling tomorrow when cutting the grass around the farm house.
“What do you mean by that?” Hanley stopped putting away the wire cutter and a small come-along he had used to repair the barbed-wire fence. Hanley was fourteen. The come-along and the cutters were both much older than he.
Looking up, his uncle stared out the garage window above his old work bench. Clouded and smudged, the glass yielded some light and a limited view of the pasture beyond. Hanley saw the jaw muscles tighten on his uncle’s face and then they relaxed. His head dropped again and his uncle said, “This farm is not much, but it’s all we have, all we’ll ever have. Your aunt and I have worked hard all our adult lives to have this. We’re proud of that. It isn’t the owning we’re proud of, you know. Not that. Hell, the owning is gone the moment we are. It’s the work, the effort that matters. No one gave it to us. We have never been a burden to anyone. We pay our way in this life and that’s important. We try to do more, to give back when we can. That’s important too; maybe the most important. If you can keep yourself and those you love, then you’ve done your job. If you can give back too, then you’ll have done your best. That’s all you can do in this life. Work hard and try to make a difference.” Looking up at Hanley, his uncle raised his eyebrows, smiled and shrugged, then went back to his work.
Watching his uncle, leaning against the marred, stained wood of the bench, his old tools, greasy rags and baby jars filled with nuts and washers around him, Hanley felt his own jaw tighten as he realized just how much he admired the man. The lives of his aunt and uncle were simple and hard. It was that way, he thought, because the plan and purpose of their lives was simple also; be good and work hard. All else that follows or is the result of that effort will be of a similar nature. Over the next few years, they would have many conversations about work, responsibility and making a difference. He remembered all of them.
***
“I feel bad about leaving so soon. Things aren’t finished. There’s still the wheat to harvest and we haven’t completed enlarging the pond. There’s more brush to clear and…”
“Don’t worry, college is important and we knew you had to leave sooner this year. We’re proud that you’re going. Bob’s coming over to help and Rick will be here for another ten days or so. Your aunt has been helping with Bob’s kids since his wife took ill and he won’t cost me much. If the brush sits until spring, it won’t hurt anything. I would like to get the pond done before winter. Take advantage of any snow melt next spring to fill it up. We’ll manage,” his uncle said.
“How bad is Bob’s wife?”
“Pretty bad, from what your aunt says. Maybe won’t recover. All those boxes of canned goods and clothes you saw stacked on the back porch were for them. When you and Rickie leave, we don’t eat as much, as your aunt cans and we’ve stocked piled plenty of fruit and vegetables. We won’t miss it and they can use it. The clothes are those collected by the church. It’s small, compared to what they need, what they will need.” Hanley looked at the worn top of the kitchen table where they sat talking, an old oak table, scarred in small places, the varnish thin and yellowed. A brown lump of what looked like a bread crumb nestled in the crevasse formed by the split that allowed the table to be pulled apart and a leaf put in.
“It’s good of her to do that for them.”
“She doesn’t do it to be nice but because she should. Her being nice may be part of what Bob sees, how he feels about it. Your
aunt doesn’t mind that. She does it because she should. It’s part of the debt we owe and she pays it. That’s all.”
“What debt?”
“The debt most of us owe, for being fortunate, for our lives and our loved ones. Just knowing that things could be worse, we need to remember any considerations we receive in this life. It’s a hard thing, living, harder than any of us expect. If we do well, if our families don’t suffer much, if we’re happy most of the time, then we are lucky. What we can do for others in need is just paying back what we owe for our good luck. A child born with a horrible illness may never know what good fortune is. How do you account for that? You don’t. All you can do is help where and when you can. Your great-grandfather once said to me that there are only three things of value in this life; your family, your reputation and your education. Most people believe that, but don’t live their lives like they do. They think money and what it buys is as important. They’re fools. You know that, don’t you? Don’t be a fool Hanley. Remember who you are, realize what you have that’s important and what you may owe. When it’s all said and done, just pray you can look back on your life, you family and your deeds and be satisfied with what you’ve done.”
***
The schedule for the flights for the coming month sat before Hanley on the table in the mission office, the low light of the early evening from the small windows enough as he scanned his destinations, already familiar with the names, visualizing them on a map in his head, then switching quickly to the sight of the runways lining up before him, the nose of the Beech down in descent, the leveling out and tilting of the plane’s nose back to the sky as the tire skittered on the pavement or spewed the gravel behind them upon touchdown. Touchdown had been synonymous with safety until he arrived in Africa. Now, safety had little to do with it, he thought.
11
“Have you seen the airstrip since we’ve repaired it?” Hanley asked the nun. “I wanted to have it ready before the first flight.”
“No, I have no reason to go to the airstrip, except now, with you,” she said. “Jumma said it looks like new, although I doubt he has ever seen a new runway before.”
“I appreciate your coming out. Jumma was a great help with getting it done. My language skills being what they are, he was indispensable, you know,” Hanley shouted to make sure she heard him. “Jumma is proud of the work.”
The Land Cruiser bumped along the road to Akot and the mission airstrip, Sister Marie Claire fighting the steering wheel, trying to miss ruts, hitting others. The jolt of the tires smashing through clods of roan-colored dirt should have tossed Hanley into the air, but for the old seatbelt holding him down. The black vinyl seat was hot, making him sweat through his shirt. His back was wet enough that he slid back and forth across the seat as they drove. “It’s only 11:30 in the morning and already so hot, I can barely breathe,” he said, wiping the moisture from his forehead with his wrist.
Departing from the airstrip would be difficult, the track needing maintenance, always requiring inspection, which took time. Walking the airstrip for the first time, two days after his arrival, Hanley mapped the larger ruts and holes, the soft spots and brush having grown too near the track. Ever watchful for snakes, he noticed the large number of hoof prints, clumped together as the cattle grazed, or strung out as they walked in line along the runway. Stones had emerged here and there, the result of the rains, and Hanley noted them as ovals on the drawing he made of the landing strip, the blueprint for the reclamation project he would oversee. It would be hard, hot work. Even starting early in the morning was no protection against the heat. Now the spring rains passed, Hanley, Jumma and a small crew of workers from the mission could repair the ruts and holes in the track and have the work last. They filled them first with dirt, then with gravel from the back of the large truck, gravel Hanley bought in Rumbek, The repairs took several days to complete, the time extended by the number of trips made to buy the gravel. The improvements were enough to make the departures and landings manageable.
“Is every building in Kokomo air-conditioned?” she asked.
“Just those that need to be.”
“It’s the same here in Mapuordit,” she said, smiling. “Sister Mary Kathleen tells me her office at Notre Dame is so hot in the summer, she keeps a bucket of ice under her chair. She claims it’s the administration’s way of preparing her for Hell, which is where she believes they are trying to send her.”
“I doubt she needs their help,” he said as he held on to the armrest, hoping to anchor himself for the remainder of the ride. Every bump produced a loud clang from the rear of the vehicle, the tools banging inside an old metal box bolted to the floor. Hanley’s uncle taught him that loose toolboxes in trucks running over fields were dangerous. For a long time, he had not given the issue of dangerous toolboxes much thought, not until his first ride in the Land Cruiser, when a horrific bang and then the sound of metal sliding reluctantly along metal registered with him instantly. Instructing Jumma to stop, Hanley used an old piece of rope found beneath the front passenger seat to secure the wayward box to the back of the seat until he could manage to bolt it down, which he did.
The smell from the bush reminded Hanley of bailed Indiana hay, lying hot in the summer sun. Dust too was carried into the truck, sticking to his sweaty face and arms, a thin irregular line of brown forming along the underside of both his forearms.
He watched what appeared to be sparrows, but bigger, flying in and out of the brush along the road, never seeming to light, as if resting were too dangerous. The day before, he saw what he thought was a vulture, circling above the compound. Jumma said it was an eagle, a steppe eagle, which Hanley never heard of before. At that moment, Hanley realized how many things in this world were still mysteries to him and that fact would never change.
“Will you be taking Jumma with you tomorrow?” she asked.
“Well, I had to think about that. I wasn’t sure taking him on the first trip was wise, not knowing what I might encounter. I don’t look for any problems, but then, you never know. Since he has not flown before, I didn’t want his first time spoiled by an unpleasant memory. But since the first flight is into Ethiopia with no stops in between, I thought it would be alright, so, yes, he’s going with me,” Hanley said.
Her hands were red from the tight grip on the steering wheel, her gaze intent, watching the track before her for problems; replacing blown tires and broken suspensions was expensive and parts hard to come by. “He’s excited, but nervous. He wants everyone to believe he’s not afraid to fly, but I think he is. Since he first came to us, Jumma has worked hard to prove his worth to the mission, that he is intelligent and capable,” she told Hanley. Never taking her eyes off the rough path before her, Sister Marie Claire’s voice rose above the noise of the trip, the clanging and the roar of the engine, the air crashing against the box shape of the truck. “Jumma really likes you,” she said. “Because he has no real experience with Americans, you are like a man from Mars to him. Your success and the fact that you flew your own plane from America to Africa astounds him. He does not want to disappoint you. That is part of the fear. He does not want to fail at anything, but especially on his first flight with you.”
“I know how he feels,” Hanley said.
Rolling to a stop by the old terminal shack, the nun relaxed her grip and smiled. “You know, I don’t have a driver’s license. I had no need to drive before I came to Africa. But I do well, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Yes, you do well. I doubt this experience will help you in France. Not a lot of kudu crossing the roads there I expect,” he said. “Come on, let’s look at the airstrip.”
The grasses around the terminal and the airstrip were beginning to green from the spring rains. Small cups of water lined the side of the strip, uneven in their placement and would be gone by mid-afternoon if no more rains came that day. The day was heating up. Beads of sweat lay across the bridge of the nun’s nose. Walking along the strip, she stopped, hands o
n her hips, the tunic she wore over slacks bunched beneath her hands. Examining the strip, she said, “Only once have I been to the airstrip in the past two years. There was no need, really. But, what I remember of its condition, this is much improved. The workers did well, I believe. Now I see why Jumma was so proud.”
“Thank you, sister. They did work hard. The young men of the mission take a good deal of pride in what they do, that’s obvious. I was glad to have their help,” he said.
Turning to face Hanley, Sister Marie Claire said, “Now that you have a good runway, make good use of it.” Looking into his eyes, she smiled, bent down and plucked a small white flower from a stem growing next to the gravel, turned and walked back to the terminal.
***
“Okay, Jumma, we’ve inspected the plane, looking for any signs of wear or fatigue, for any potential problems. As I explained, it’s better to discover them while the plane is on the ground then when it’s in the air. Trust me on that. Now, we’re going to review what is called the pre-flight check list. It is in this book, a binder, really. Here, take it. I’ll show you how to go through it and check the plane’s systems before take-off,” Hanley said, handing a small three-ring binder to Jumma. The binder was the size of a small-town telephone directory, covered in black vinyl, the pages inside held in clear plastic envelopes with holes for holding them to the rings. Jumma opened the binder, placed it on his lap with his head down low to examine the print. Running a finger down the first column, Hanley watched as his lips moved, reading the words. The check-list index looked like this:
Checklist – Beechcraft C-45 Expeditor
Sometimes the Darkness Page 10