With his face buried in her shoulder, the small boy clung to his mother as she carried him to the car, his arms wrapped around her neck. The bear hung by its paw from the boy’s hand. The nun hoped his fears were over and he was no longer afraid.
***
The building housing the Catholic diocese in Rumbek was built with a dark wood, somber in the afternoon’s overcast light. It sat along a narrow-paved road, the asphalt bordered by two broad bands of fine, light dirt, while other buildings, painted white and beige, bravely faced its dark authority Michael Campbell met the bishop on the front steps. “Thank you for seeing me this morning,” he said, a hand extended to be shaken by the prelate.
The corridor leading to the bishop’s office was as dark as the outside, a long narrow hall, clad in a wood Michael did not recognize, stained almost black, light from the open, screened main door reflected on raised parts of the panel’s grain, shiny ragged ribbons along the walls. The office, also dark, with a small wooden desk, scarlet curtains and carpeting the only hint of the church in his office.
“Mr Campbell, how is your friend, Mr Martin?” the bishop asked.
“He’s doing all right, considering. He is paralyzed from the waist down. But, other than that, the doctors expect him to recover. Thank you for asking.”
“You know, I admire what he and the good Sister Marie Claire did. I am completely saddened, however, that a fine young man lost his life in the process. Your friend and the nun have to bear that responsibility forever, I am afraid. We can offer them our forgiveness, but it is not our forgiveness that is important, but that of God,” the bishop said. Michael noted a weariness in the bishop’s voice. Pouring some tea into a cup on his desk, the cleric asked, “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. Father, I need your help. Hanley’s plane still sits near Shambe. I spent two days there, repairing some damaged oil lines and straightening some cooling fins around cylinders. I also moved it off the road. Some residents of Shambe have been watching it, keeping it from being vandalized. I want to fly it from Sudan to Morocco. I will make a stop in Niger and Algeria. Maybe two in Algeria. I want to leave tomorrow. I do not want any problems. Can you and the church help me?” Michael asked. The bishop busied himself with adding sugar and some milk to his tea.
“You do not need our help. If you have enough fuel to cross the border into Chad or the CAR, then I would say you should leave whenever you want. I’m told the government is not interested in the plane, not yet, at least. I would leave here and take the plane as soon as I could, if I were you. Good luck, Mr Campbell. And I hope God blesses your friend,” the Bishop said.
***
A half-dozen boys and men stood beneath the tree, near the road leading to Shambe. Some shaded their eyes while others, mostly the boys, covered their ears, keeping out the noise of the Beech’s engine, their dark faces gathered, bunched around their noses, expressions ranging from fear to fascination. Michael Campbell occasionally glanced their way, but watched the cattle more carefully, looking for any movement toward the roadway. A member of the Mapuordit mission staff asked the oldest of the men to move the cattle further away from the road, but the cattle remained where they were when Michael and the others arrived.
Earlier, on the way to Shambe with a doctor and two of the men who worked around the mission, Michael explained he was to fly the plane to France, to an airport near his home in Saint-Nazaire. There, it would stay and undergo further repairs and maintenance before being flown back to America, a difficult flight. The flight to France would not be easy, but he hoped to be there before the week’s end. He would file a flight plan for Morocco from an airport in Chad. He could not chance a flight plan before leaving Sudan.
A call from the mission to a friend in England, the owner of a Beech 18, helped Michael with the start-up procedures. Hanley was in no shape to talk about the Beech. Michael watched Hanley do it before, once in Indiana and when Hanley left France for Sudan. The procedures went well and he was about to lift off. With any luck, he would be home for dinner in three days.
36
October 30, 2001
Dear Hanley,
This letter must be brief for I have many things to do and they must be completed soon.
I hear you have been moved to a private room from the intensive care area. That is the best news I have had since we landed in Shambe. I hope and pray for your recovery every day. I believe God brought you here and your purpose was to give hope back to the children. The prayers I say are for the children also.
The church has decided to work to reunite the children with their families. What else can they do, no? The kidnappings were illegal and the church will help, this I have been told. I stay with the children every day, helping them wait, using Jumma’s journal to identify their families. You would be proud of how Jumma did this. The information he gathered about the families and the children was written as questions each child could be asked, the answer the information that would identify the child as belonging to that family. Even the youngest, who might not remember, could be helped this way. Jumma was so very bright. I am proud of him. His life was important and continues to be so.
I am leaving Sudan tomorrow, flying to Cairo from Juba and then to Paris. The church has instructed me to take a leave of absence, a month, to consider my future, but that requires no thought. I know what I will do. I will not be returning to Sudan, at least not as part of the church.
I spoke with Michael Campbell yesterday before he left for Shambe. He is taking your plane to Morocco and then to Saint-Nazaire, saying the entire trip would take less than seven days. He said the plane would be returned to America. I think that is wonderful. He is a good friend, one who cares for you, cares deeply.
I will write to you when I am back in France at my mother’s home. I wanted to return to Kenya to see you, but could not. I hope you understand. Give your daughter and Ms. Vincenti my warmest wishes.
Adieu,
Sister Marie Claire
***
Elizabeth folded the letter, placed it on the bedside table, handling it as if it were a soiled diaper. “That takes nerve, I’ll say that. I thought about tossing the damned thing in the trash, but Rocky said you should read it, or hear it. Same thing. I’m glad they’re sending her back to Europe. She should never have left there. They could have sent her ass to Iran or somewhere like that,” she said, looking out the window. Hanley did not respond, was not listening. The letter depressed him. Certainly, he was glad the children were safe and maybe would be reunited with their families, but the mere mention of Jumma’s name brought on more guilt. Hanley was suffering from enough already.
Rocky was back at the hotel. Hanley was glad. Much of his guilt was for what he believed he had done to Elizabeth and Rocky. Jumma was simply more. The irony was in the fact that his search for clarity, to find the answer, did he owe a debt for his good fortune, had not produced an answer, only the knowledge he no longer owed anyone anything other than an apology. The knowledge was an empty one.
***
December 2, 2001
Dear Hanley,
Today I spoke with Sophie and Michael Campbell. I was surprised to hear you were flown to Rome and then America without a stop. My information was not good information, I fear. I was hoping for a chance to see you before you went on to Indiana. They were kind enough to invite me to visit them in Saint-Nazaire. Next week, I will drive to see them. My new apartment near Limoges is not that far. I will see the plane. Michael said the damage has been repaired. He hopes to return it to you in the spring.
After I returned to France, I was here a week, I was summoned to Paris to the office of Father Bertrand’s successor, Father Ranson, a truly colorless man. Father Bertrand is quite ill and will not return to serve the church. Father Ranson was polite, but blunt. My actions, he said, placed the church is a precarious place. My decisions were flawed. I was responsible for placing many people in danger and hurting you. He did not mention Jumma. I do not know wh
y, but I am glad he did not. He told me I would be assigned to a parish near Dijon. But I will not go. I have other plans. Tomorrow, I meet with the diocese to arrange my retirement, such as it will be. Dijon will be like being put in a drawer, out of the way, a convenience. That will not be. I am afraid I have become a difficult person, perhaps more than I was before. I am certain Father Robineau would not agree.
My mind is certain of this. I have spoken with a group that works to bring aid to those in need in Africa. I hope to join them and return to Sudan to carry on the work, unencumbered by the constraints of the church. We will see.
I try not to think of Jumma. That is cowardly, I know, but when I do, I cry. I would cry all day if I did not keep him out of my head. It is hard. I want to remember him. He was the hope of his country, he and the other young men and women. There is such a waste of hope in Sudan and I was part of that process, at least for Jumma.
When Jumma came to the mission, he followed the doctors and nurses, all day, every day. Jumma ignored his fear and sadness, his loneliness, missing his family, he set all of that aside to watch and learn. The doctors did not understand and scolded him at times. Jumma never stopped, was not discouraged by the doctors’ rudeness. He never stopped learning, never stopped wanting to help. It was why I allowed him to be part of the plan to rescue the children. He so wanted to and I so wanted him to. I knew it would make him feel he was helping. Jumma was grateful for the care he received at Mapuordit. He wanted to return the gift of care and hope. Just like you. That was what you sought in coming to Africa, to Sudan. You wanted to know how to give back what you had received, for a lifetime of good fortune. But you already knew. When you stepped into your plane to fly to Sudan, you knew. The flight was simply the beginning, the down payment. The debt you owed was one of your own making. We all do this, we all wonder why we were chosen for good fortune while others suffer. But until the end, until our lives are complete, we will never know if we were fortunate or unfortunate. I think it is always a matter of balance, in the end. If our lives are good and we have helped others, given to those in need, then we have been fortunate. In a way, Jumma was fortunate. The children he saved are a testament to that. He was given a chance to sacrifice for the lives of others and he succeeded. His story will be remembered.
I will write again soon. I hope your recovery goes well.
Adieu,
Sister Marie Claire
***
Rain fell in a drumroll pattern on the roof of Michael Campbell’s Mercedes, sitting outside the white metal hanger at the Saint-Nazaire/Montoir Airport. The wide door at the front of the building was open. Inside, Claire could see the Beech sitting in the darkened space, the gleam of the dull light of the rain-blurred sky a gray glow hovering above the cement floor.
“I have an umbrella, Sister, would you like to go in?” Michael asked, looking between the space between the front seat, making certain of his promise.
“It is no longer Sister Marie Claire. It is only Claire,” she said, looking at the plane, feeling as if she had just discovered a memento in a drawer, once owned by someone whose friendship she lost. “Yes, I would like to see the plane, perhaps look inside, if that is permitted.”
“Certainly. Let me come around before you get out.”
Inside the hangar, the Beech looked bigger than she remembered. It was polished, brilliant even in the gloom. Standing before it, she raised her hand, to touch its nose, her long fingers just brushing the surface. A small sob broke, barely noticeable. Michael Campbell turned at the sound, but said nothing. Bringing her hand down to her chest, she clenched it into a fist, her head bowed. Swaying, her eyes closed, a tear rolled down her cheek. Lifting her head, she turned to her left, walking around the plane, looking, but not touching. As she came to the rear cargo door, she said, “May I look inside?” Michael strode to the door, turned the handle and lowered it, then extended his hand. Claire took his hand, stepped up and in. The interior was almost too dark to see, the general shape apparent, a slight shine from the wood flooring, the cargo net, spider-webbed across a window. The images of the children came to her, their backs against the wall, their arms linked, so small and frightened. There was something else, not an image, but more a feeling, perhaps an aura of sorts. They were resolute, especially when they chanted their belief in Hanley, that he could do it, he could rescue them. That memory, the idea it brought, undid her and she wept, both hands covering her face. This plane would haunt her the rest of her life. She knew this and welcomed it.
37
April 3, 2002
Dear Hanley,
It is late afternoon. I am in my apartment with the sunlight from the window covering the table where I sit, warming my hands as I write. I did not attend mass again this day. My mother will be unhappy. That I cannot help. There is a bitterness in me I am trying to push out, but I have not done that yet. I know what we did was the right thing to do. My regrets are many, considering. But the children were returned and that matters most.
From my window, I can see a park, a small park, with some mature trees and a fountain, the water from the fountain’s spray turning blue and red in the sunlight, maybe green as well.
There are children there, small children with the mothers and grandparents. They seem happy, are safe, I think. I think about Sudan, dream about Sudan, always. I believe children are the reason we stay civilized. The park is pleasant. Watching it helps.
I may be leaving for Africa in June. The organization is still considering my request. I fear the events in Kosti are a problem. This has not been said to me, but I think they are hesitating. I have spoken to Sister Mary Kathleen. She has contacts who tell her the organization has received pressure from the Sudanese government to keep me out of the country.
Michael Campbell tells me the Beech has been returned to Kokomo. I was surprised to hear that Sophie flew with him. He said the trip took nine days, that the weather was good, the trip a pleasant one. Michael also said you are doing well, your health is good, but you are not involving yourself in your rehabilitation. This worries me. It worries everyone, he said. Your daughter asked him to intervene. He said he tried, but did not believe it was effective. I know this will not mean much, but please help yourself. You did so much to help others, do the same for yourself.
Not hearing from you worries me. I hope you are receiving these letters and reading them. Mary Kathleen said she has not spoken with you since the Christmas holiday. I will keep writing. I want to speak with you someday, maybe visit you in America. I want to see you again.
I will continue to write. Please be well.
Adieu,
Claire
***
The room was darkening as the sun sank below the tree line, settling into the cradle formed by the tree tops and the roof of his garage. Keeping the house dark suited him now. Weed, already asleep on the couch, snored and shook, dreamt of whatever old dogs dream. Rocky had just left, the cup of coffee she’d set before him still steaming, the too large white cup used so he would not struggle trying to get himself another, the cup dwarfing the small glass of neat whiskey, another chore done to prevent him any unnecessary movement. She left, after dinner, after cleaning up, after preparing him for the evening, the coffee, the whiskey, the remote, the dog walked, the kiss on the forehead. He thought he might be losing her, that she might already be gone. He couldn’t blame her if she was. She just hadn’t physically left him yet. That would come, he thought.
Elizabeth had finally moved out, not without a fight. Her new home, two miles away, on the edge of a beautiful old neighborhood, was within walking distance of a good elementary school. It was a smaller house than his, with a large back yard, big enough for an ever-scrambling four-year old and a large garden. Rocky helped Elizabeth lay out the plans, a plan similar to Rocky’s own.
It took him two months of constant arguing and insistence to wear Elizabeth down. It was the best decision for everyone. Hanley could not stand the idea of Elizabeth spending her life cari
ng for him. The ground floor of his house was now his world. A former sitting room was now his bedroom, the bed low enough to allow him to roll from the chair to the bed. Two curved bars, inverted U’s, were bolted to the floor, allowing Hanley to pull himself up and into his chair. He hated all of it, every bit of it.
He would never get used to it, the confinement, the struggle. It took him no time to realize that ninety-nine percent of the people in wheelchairs were significantly tougher than he was. His days were now spent scheming his own demise and getting up the nerve to do it. It might happen. He wanted it to be as painless and mess-free as possible. If he did it, he would use pills and booze.
He didn’t regret Sudan. Focusing on the children was key, it made it all somewhat acceptable. Then there was Jumma. Nothing would ever help with that. He would never forget seeing the young African, face down in the dirt of the runway. He tried to forget Jumma, tried hard. Jumma would always be there and he did not want to live with that. Then there was the nun. But she was no longer a nun. She was again Claire Audebourg.
She sent four letters, he read only one, the first. After the third, he called Sister Mary Kathleen and implored her to intervene. The last letter came before she could stop it. It was still on the coffee table in the den, unopened. He couldn’t read it; wouldn’t.
Sometimes the Darkness Page 27