The Garden of Burning Sand

by Corban Addison

  On the cusp of Constitution Avenue, Zoe saw a herd of reporters and cameramen milling outside Dirksen’s public entrance. She turned abruptly and faced the Capitol, the gravity of the moment settling on her shoulders. Trevor put a protective arm around her, reverting to the role he had played since they were children.

  “They’re here for Frieda Caraway, too,” he said. “Ignore them and they’ll let you pass.”

  She nodded, warding off her doubts. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the barricaded tarmac and entered the throng of journalists. For a second or two the reporters didn’t recognize her, but then someone spoke her name—“That’s Zoe Fleming!”—and the sidewalk erupted with noise. Zoe allowed Trevor to take the lead and walked forward step by step until at last they found shelter inside the doors.

  After clearing security, they took the elevator to the fourth floor and traversed the marble hallway to the hearing room. The crowd outside was dotted with journalists, but the atmosphere here was more sedate. One reporter—a man Zoe vaguely recognized—pressed close to her and asked, “Ms. Fleming, isn’t it true that your appearance today is a vote against your father’s campaign?”

  She engaged him despite herself: “This isn’t about politics or the election. It’s about America’s relationship to a billion people around the world who live in conditions we would never tolerate for our own children.”

  She slipped into the wood-paneled hearing room and kissed Trevor on the cheek, leaving him to find a seat in the gallery. She walked up the aisle and found her place at the head of the witness table. The card beside hers read: “Ms. FRIEDA CARAWAY.” Zoe smiled apprehensively. That Senator Hartman had given her the pole position ahead of an Academy-Award-winning actress was either a reflection of admiration or the basest political opportunism.

  She settled into her seat and surveyed the dais, focusing on her father’s nameplate three chairs down from Senator Hartman’s. “MR.

  FLEMING,” it read. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift back in time to the day when all of this had begun.

  She remembered the boyish face of Clay Randall, drawing her into the lonely dunes of East Beach on Chappaquiddick. The sand had blown with such fierceness that she had suggested turning back, but he had led her into a lee with a view of the Atlantic, and she had relented. Then the blanket came out, and the bags of red grapes and cheese. After that came the poetry and the kissing and the hands that had disregarded the boundaries of her bikini, causing her to squirm and protest, then to slap him in the face. She had nearly escaped. But nearly was not enough. Afterward, through a veil of tears, she had whispered: “Why?” Clay had looked her up and down and sneered: “You know you wanted it.” Ten days later she had summoned the courage to tell her father. She could still hear his words if she listened closely enough: “It sounds like the two of you had a misunderstanding. I think it’s best that you forget about it and go on with your life.”

  The next forty minutes in the hearing room passed in a blur—the noisy admission of the media; the assembling of the photographers; the arrival of the other panelists, including Frieda Caraway, aglitter with diamonds; the dance of congressional aides and security officials; the entry of Senator Hartman, followed by a steady trickle of other members; the sudden appearance of Jack Fleming with his senior aides a few minutes after two o’clock; and, finally, Hartman’s long-winded introduction. Zoe endured all of it with a deliberate composure that belied her nervousness. Even the confident smile she gave her father was a fleeting thing.

  As the chairman concluded his remarks, Zoe blinked away the glare of the lights and glanced at Frieda Caraway beside her. The actress was seated primly, her posture erect and her face impassive despite the cameras trained on her. For a moment, Zoe imagined her mother sitting there, and asked the question again: How would you handle this?

  Suddenly, Zoe heard her name.

  “Ms. Fleming,” Senator Hartman said, “the committee is grateful for your excellent article in the New Yorker and for your deep personal commitment to the poor and vulnerable around the world. We welcome your remarks.”

  Zoe hesitated for a moment, her mind distracted by the cameras. Then the words came to her without thought. “Senator Hartman, members of the committee, I’m honored to be here with you today. My mother, Catherine Sorenson-Fleming—whom many of you knew—dedicated her life to the proposition on the seal behind you. ‘E Pluribus Unum’—’Out of many, one.’ She saw America and the globalizing world as a melting pot united by more than the sum of what divides us. But she was not a utopian. She understood the power—and to some extent the inevitability—of the age-old distinctions in human society. She didn’t believe that the world should become homogeneous, but she did believe passionately in two notions—justice and generosity.”

  Zoe looked at the senators around the dais. “I could speak to you today about justice—economic justice between the rich world and the poor world, about the moral obligations created by centuries of slavery, colonialism, and avarice. But if I took that approach I would disparage my mother’s legacy. I would rather talk to you about generosity. Unlike justice, generosity isn’t hard to define. When confronted by the one who has not, the one who has either offers a helping hand or walks by. We all know the kindness of the Good Samaritan and the parsimony of the priest and the Levite who preceded him. The difference could not be starker.”

  Zoe took a breath. “When I was six years old, my mother took me to Africa for the first time. We stayed with a diplomat in Nairobi who lived in a bungalow built by the British. My first memories of the continent came from the lush gardens in his backyard. Then we went into Kibera, one of Africa’s largest slum communities, and I met children who had nothing. Actually, they had less than nothing—they had disease, dead parents, polluted water, nutrition-depleted food. I didn’t know what I could do to change their circumstances. But I knew one thing instinctively—the only thing separating me from them was the accident of birth.”

  “My mother took me back to Africa seven times before she died,” Zoe went on. “She loved it as much as a person can love a place. She was on the vanguard of AIDS relief. She championed microfinance before it became a buzzword. She built water systems and bush clinics and funded medical trips into conflict zones. She worked with anyone who cared about genuine philanthropy—the love of human beings. She had only two enemies: cynicism and greed.

  “If my mother were alive today, she would praise Africa’s economic growth and fledgling middle class. She would encourage the expansion of free enterprise and support efforts to make aid smarter and more efficient. She would hold high the banner of trade as a rising tide that lifts all boats. But she would not abandon our system of foreign assistance. Indeed, she would argue that generosity will always be necessary because the profit motive that drives trade has no mechanism for meeting the needs of the poor. The reason is simple: the poor cannot pay.”

  Zoe’s voice took on a stronger cadence. “Today, around the world, the poorest people struggle to feed their children and keep them in school. They have no way to afford life-saving medicine, no way to fund an adequate justice system. Those of us who have the means must help them. We in America are not blind to this. Generosity is one of the great legacies of our nation. But some among us are suggesting that we close our eyes.”

  “We are in a position to all but eliminate the transmission of AIDS within a generation, but we’re scaling back PEPFAR. We’ve saved countless lives through the Malaria Initiative and the Global Fund, but we’re retrenching on our commitments. In Zambia where I work, hundreds of children are brutally raped each year, but their abusers get away with it because prosecutors don’t have access to DNA. These are problems that money can solve, but the market alone won’t solve them because there is little in it for the businessman. Generosity must deliver them.”

  Zoe glanced around the panel. “Confronted with the crises of debt and deficit, we face an equally momentous crisis of conscience. On one
side are our fears. On the other is our humanity. It is at moments like this that we prove our true character.”

  She hesitated on the threshold of decision, her heart racing with adrenaline. She could conclude cleanly or toss a hand grenade at the dais. She fixed her eyes on her father and saw the stillness in his frame. The blankness of his expression pushed her toward the precipice.

  “I know the inconvenience of humanity. I know what it feels like to be …”

  Suddenly, her father winced and she saw pain in his eyes. She paused ever so slightly and softened her words.

  “… to be alone in a vulnerable place. Today in Africa and all around the world there are people whose names will never make it into the history books—people living on the margins of society, amid war and famine, violence, and disease. We will never meet them, but we are no different from them. They do not need welfare or dependency. They need generosity and empowerment. We are in a position to offer that. If we do, history will judge us kindly. If we do not, God help us.”

  When she spoke the last word, Zoe sat back in her chair and retreated inward to a place she could not define. She heard the speeches that followed and the questions and answers, but the rest of the proceeding carried the faded edges of a dream. Occasionally, she glanced at her father, expecting to see anger, but his eyes held only sadness. He declined to question the panel and left the hearing room as soon as the adjournment was announced.

  Zoe followed suit, pausing only to shake hands with Senator Hartman and to give Frieda Caraway a hug. Trevor met her at the exit and guided her through the horde of cameras and journalists. They left Dirksen by a side exit and walked around the Capitol to the National Mall. The wide grass of the commons was half-dead, trampled by tourists, but the clouds had broken up and left the sky full of light.

  “There’s something I want to know,” Trevor said, sitting beside her on a bench. “What did you mean at the end? When were you alone in a vulnerable place?”

  The pain in his voice made her cringe. “If I tell you, it’ll be worse.”

  He took a sharp breath. “It’s that bad?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  Zoe watched a young father throwing a Frisbee with his daughter. The girl was seven or eight years old, and her smile was frank, uncluttered by the world. “It happened the summer you left for Harvard,” she began, and told him the whole story.

  When she finished, he massaged his face with his hands. “Clay Randall. I should break his kneecaps. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Tears came to her eyes. “There were times I almost did. But it never seemed right.”

  He shook his head wearily. “Sometimes I wish Dad never got into politics. Partisanship turns friends into enemies.”

  “I never wanted to be his enemy. I just wanted an apology.”

  Trevor looked resolute. “I should break his kneecaps.”

  “Please don’t,” she said, laughing softly.

  “The press is going to have a field day with the hearing.”

  If only you knew what I was about to say, she thought, feeling an overwhelming relief that she had stepped back from the ledge. The word in her notes, the word she almost used, was the word “betrayed.”

  “I’m going back to Africa,” she said. “It won’t matter.”

  “You can’t hide there forever.”

  She frowned. “I’m not hiding.”

  He looked into her eyes. “Did you hear yourself today? You were magnificent. You’ll be thirty in a few months. The trust will be yours. Imagine what you could do with it.”

  Zoe turned away and saw the girl running to catch the Frisbee, her blonde hair flowing behind her. I can’t, she thought, picturing Joseph’s face, but the idea stuck to her like a burr and would not let her go.

  Chapter 31

  The next morning, Zoe awoke in the goose-down warmth of Trevor’s guest bed. She grabbed her iPhone off the bedside table and checked her messages. More than twenty-four hours had passed since Kuyeya’s MRI, and Dr. Chulu had promised her quick results now that the chief radiologist was back from leave.

  She saw a text from Joseph, sent at 4:07 a.m. D.C. time: “Good to talk yesterday. Happy the hearing is over. Call Dr Chulu ASAP.”

  Her pulse quickened as she searched for the physician’s number. She reached him on his mobile. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “There have been complications,” he said guardedly. “Kuyeya needs surgery.”

  “Why?” she asked, sitting upright in the bed.

  He took a breath. “Children with Down syndrome sometimes have laxity in the ligament that separates the bone of the atlas—that is, the top cervical vertebra—from the spinal cord. It’s called atlantoaxial instability. Most of the time it doesn’t become symptomatic. But trauma can trigger it, such as a fall or a violent incident—”

  “Like a rape,” Zoe interjected.

  “Yes. It can take months to manifest. But when it reaches an advance, stage—when the cord itself is threatened—the only way to correct it is to perform a spinal fusion.”

  “Shouldn’t you have caught this before?”

  “An MRI is much more revealing than an X-ray.”

  That’s why I wanted one before now, she thought. “So when is the surgery scheduled?” she asked, forcing herself to stay calm.

  “That’s the problem. A fusion requires a neurosurgeon operating in theater with an orthopedic surgeon. The closest hospital equipped to perform the procedure is in Pretoria.”

  “Why can’t UTH do it?”

  “We have qualified surgeons,” he answered a bit defensively. “We lack a proper facility.”

  “So medevac her to Pretoria. Get the South Africans to do it.”

  He cleared his throat. “That would involve substantial expense.”

  “How much?”

  “Pretoria Wellness Hospital is a private facility. With the medevac, it will cost at least one hundred thousand dollars, perhaps more.”

  Zoe was stunned. “How soon does this need to happen?”

  “She needs to be operated on immediately. Her spinal cord is in peril. If she were to fall again, it could kill her.”

  Dear God, Zoe thought, chills racing through her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She hung up and placed a call to Atticus Spelling. The octogenarian was both a compulsive workaholic and a habitual early riser. His secretary—an old bird named Harriet—greeted Zoe officiously and transferred her to Spelling.

  “Zoe,” he said. “Such a pleasant surprise.”

  She dispensed with pretense. “Atticus, we’ve had our share of disagreements, but I know how much you love your grandchildren.”

  “That goes without saying,” he agreed cautiously.

  She told him a boiled-down version of Kuyeya’s story. “I need a hundred thousand dollars from the trust to save her life. I can put you in touch with Dr. Chulu if you want confirmation, but that’s the number he gave me.”

  Spelling sighed. “I sympathize with the plight of this child, I truly do. But there are thousands of others just like her around the world. You would squander the trust principal quickly if you tried to cover all their bills.”

  Zoe’s temper flared. “I’m not talking about every child. I’m talking about one child.”

  The trustee didn’t break stride. “I’m sure there are charitable programs in place that can assist her. Find me one that has appropriate accountability structures, and I will consider a disbursal of that magnitude.”

  Zoe exploded: “Damn you, Atticus. I’m asking for one half of one percent of the principal balance six months before it’s mine anyway. Please give me the money.”

  “I’m sorry, Zoe, I can’t do it,” said the old man. “I have a fiduciary responsibility to fulfill. Call your father if you like.”

  The next thing Zoe heard was the dial tone. She took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure. Then she threw on jeans a
nd a T-shirt and went to find Trevor. He was in the dining room, eating a plate of scrambled eggs.

  “Did I make the paper?” she asked.

  He laughed wryly. “The front page of the Post. Below the fold, but still prominent.”

  The noose around her neck tightened. “What did they say?”

  “They were complimentary. But it isn’t the last we’ll hear of it.”

  She sat down across from him. “Have you talked to Dad?”

  Trevor regarded her frankly. “A few minutes ago. He isn’t happy. He thinks the media is overplaying the story. It’s not like you said anything damaging.” He paused, looking conflicted. “I’m sorry. This has put me in an awkward position.”

  “I know,” Zoe said apologetically. “Look, it’s simple. He should just let it go. It’ll blow over in a week, and the press will find something else to talk about.”

  “It’s not simple,” Trevor disagreed. “You opposed him in a very public way. It doesn’t look good to the voter on the street.”

  Zoe allowed her pain to show. “He should have thought of that years ago.”

  Trevor ran a hand through his hair. “This is such a mess.”

  “Not to change the subject,” Zoe said, doing exactly that, “but I need a hundred thousand dollars.” She told him about Kuyeya and the door Atticus Spelling had slammed in her face.

  Trevor shook his head slowly. “You are one complicated human being. The most I can give you is ten. I maxed out my savings to buy the M5.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of your trust.”

  He looked perplexed. “I transferred all the money to Mom’s foundation. I told you that.”

  “Yes, but that puts you in the Founders’ Circle. You could talk to Monica.”