by Judy Baer
He currently didn’t have a beard, but his hair was long and scraggly, as if he’d cut it himself with a kitchen knife. His eyes were the same gray as his lightweight sweater, watchful and unreadable. His skin, slightly pockmarked, was fairly sallow. All in all, he looked tough, unhealthy and a little wild.
This is a man with whom Adam had spent a good deal of time. Would unraveling the mystery of Frankie do anything to solve the puzzle about Adam?
“Come in.” I stepped out of the doorway. Winslow’s head came up and he looked interestedly at our new visitor. “Chase said you’d know where to look for what you wanted.”
“Not really. But it shouldn’t be hard to find.” He sauntered over to Winslow, allowed the dog to smell the back of his hand to gain his approval and then began to scratch Winslow behind the ear. They were immediately BFF.
Best Friends Forever. It doesn’t take much with Winslow.
“It should be in a large, padded manila folder. I sent it to him, so my return address will be in the corner. I can look in the bedroom if you don’t mind checking around out here.”
I was the one to find it, tucked under the couch as if Adam had chosen to keep it out of sight.
“I think this must be it.” I held it up to show Frankie.
“Probably. Let me check.” Frankie slid his finger along the already broken tape at the seal, plunged his hand into the packet and pulled out a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos, each with a sticky note attached to identify the subject matter.
“Ah…”“ he said with satisfaction. “Bingo. These are what I need.” He sauntered to Adam’s kitchen table and spread them out to study them.
Good manners, courtesy and curiosity did battle within me. Curiosity won. I inched toward him, trying to get a peek at the photos.
Frankie, without turning his head, sensed I was there. “Want to see them? These are some of the best photos I’ve ever taken—and the worst.”
I looked down at the glossy paper scattered across the table and gave an audible gasp of dismay before I drew back from the images.
The photos were mostly of women and children. I didn’t see an adult male anywhere, even in the background. That, of course, may have been Frankie’s choice. The subjects captured in his lens said it all.
First was a mother sitting on bare, hard ground, holding a lifeless child. She stared down at the infant…toddler…youngster—it was difficult to tell the age. Her face was blank, her features numb, except for a single huge tear rolling down her cheek. The mother’s body, hands and wrists poked from beneath her clothing looking sticklike and frail. The tear seemed to overwhelm her face, the emotions of a grieving mother all captured in a single tear.
There was a second child in the picture, a live one, hovering in the background. His eyes were round and dark as black opals, his stomach bulged over scrawny hips and sticklike legs. The boy was obviously emaciated, and it was clear that this mother would be shedding another tear soon.
I wanted to turn away from such intimate grief, but I couldn’t move.
The photos were set in a landscape as arid and barren as the craters of the moon. A cooking pot lay on its side, empty but for a bit of sand drifted over its lip. It had not been used for a very long time.
There was a photo of, astoundingly, children playing. Little boys with sticks and rocks, listlessly poking at them in some made-up game. Every child had the same bloated belly, the same spindly legs and the same resigned expression. The photo, had it been hanging in a gallery somewhere, might have been titled “Playing While Waiting To Die.”
There were dozens of them. A little boy holding a bowl and looking upward to an adult off camera, with resolve and hope on his face. Orphanages with their little residents lined up out front, not a smile to be seen. Aid workers unloading a truck as children milled around them.
“Where is this?” My voice sounded strangled, even to my own ears.
“Burundi,” Frankie said absently, still studying the photos. “The Great Lakes Region in Africa. There was a civil war there in the nineties. Well over a million people were forced to leave their homes. Half the men were killed or taken from their families. Thousands and thousands died.” He pushed the photos around with his finger. “Fortunately, the governments are at least trying to work together now, but there are still a lot of nasty flare-ups and human rights issues to deal with. That’s why Adam and I were there.”
“You and Adam?”
“He never said anything about Burundi?” Frankie frowned, and then his face cleared. “Oh, that’s right. The apartment above this one was vacant when we left. You hadn’t moved in yet.”
He straightened and turned away from the table. “This was a rough one. He and I have done a lot of human rights stories together—that’s his area, his forte, I guess you’d say. If Adam does a story in that niche, people take notice. He’s not the kind of guy who distances himself from his stories, that’s for sure.”
I recalled what I’d read about him on the Internet.
A troubled expression crossed his face. “I wish he had kept a little more distance on this one.” He paused. “I wish I had, too, but it’s hard not to get pulled in.”
“What are you saying?” Between these photos and what Frankie was articulating, my heart was thumping like a jackhammer in my chest.
“Refugees from the Congo are still wandering into neighboring countries. Add that to the already displaced people in Burundi and you have masses of people who need assistance. There are warring factions that still ignore human rights and protections. Parts of the country are still at war, while leaders are trying to put a stop to corruption and start addressing the fundamental issues that plague the region. Put all that together and you can imagine the logistical nightmare of taking care of the children. They’re the victims of everyone else’s failures and completely unable to fend for themselves. Watching them suffer and knowing they have no idea why this is happening to them is agony. A child shouldn’t have to accept malnutrition as a way of life.” Frankie traced his finger over a little sticklike figure.
“No,” I agreed.
“That’s why neither Adam nor I can get it out of our minds. It’s why I’m going back. Every photo I took represents a thousand children going hungry. I have to find a way to document it even more fully, to wake people up to what is happening. We can’t continue to go our merry way tossing scraps of food into the disposal and turning off the images that haunt us.”
I heard the quiver in Frankie’s voice and felt myself wanting to cry. It was so unfair. And so far away.
Like a clap of thunder it came to me. Intellectually I may have known about the problems and issues of this land and its people, but not emotionally. I was as distant from true pain and suffering as a human being could be. Never having lacked food or love for a day in my life, it was not just difficult for me to understand what those children were going through, it was unimaginable.
And if something were far away…out of sight, out of mind, so to speak…then it was far easier to ignore.
The scales fell from my eyes.
I stumbled backward, staring at the table, and almost tripped over one of Adam’s many exotic handmade rugs.
“Are you okay?” Frankie looked alarmed.
Feed My sheep.
This was the direction God had been pointing me all along. I’d prayed for a plan, and when the time was right He’d given it to me. The connection between knowing I was to “feed His sheep” and what Frankie’s photos revealed was overwhelming. I’d asked. He’d answered. Just like that. The blinders were gone and I knew with certainty that this was the path I was meant to take.
I was as surprised as Frankie to hear myself saying, “I want to go with you to Burundi. How much time do I have to get ready?”
CHAPTER 35
“You’re going where? When?”
Jane was not ecstatic about the news that I was leaving for Burundi as soon as I could pack, get my inoculations and do whatever els
e was needed to enter a Third World country. Frankie, fortunately, was willing to help expedite matters. It’s Jane’s own fault that I have an up-to-date passport. She thought I’d use it to accompany her to Ireland and Scotland someday soon.
I sure fooled her.
She sat on my couch looking as though she’d been sucking on pickles. Frustrated and not comprehending why I had gone off the deep end without warning, my sister came grudgingly to bat for me. That was, in no little part, thanks to our grandmother.
Mattie sat with Jane, looking as sweet as Jane did sour.
“Are you sure that between you and Cricket, Winslow won’t be a problem?” Winslow has been worried since the moment I opened my suitcase and started packing. He is not a dog to be left behind, and I know that my departure will be traumatic for both of us. As if he knew what I’d said, he whined and sadly lowered his head to his paws.
“He’ll be fine. Dave loves him. They go driving together in Dave’s convertible. Winslow likes to feel the air on his face and his ears flapping.”
“And Cricket?”
“You’ve seen that enormous dog run she built at her house thinking that someday she’d have a collie. Winslow can break it in for her.” Jane’s eyes narrowed. “You’re scaring me, Cassia. Just how long do you plan to be gone?”
“I have no idea.”
We’d gone through the whole feed My sheep, giving out of love, the scales off my eyes, Burundi thing over and over. It was important that I not just send representatives to do my work for me. God called me to this. I didn’t want to take the easy way out. However, cautious Jane didn’t approve of anyone, especially me, flying off to the Congo with a man I’d just met, in an attempt to save the world.
But Frankie isn’t going alone. His wife, a smiley, earth-mother type who wears Birkenstock shoes and consignment-store jeans, is going with him. Elise is every bit as fired up to do something in Burundi as Frankie is and delighted to know that he’s hooked up with someone who has several million dollars to get the job done. With a master’s degree in economics, Elise is one smart cookie, and has already begun researching the most efficient and effective ways to make the money work for us. It took us approximately twelve seconds to become good friends. I felt safer embarking on this adventure with Frankie, the world traveler, and Elise, the savvy businessperson, than any other couple I could imagine.
God does provide. And now that He’s started, His rapid-fire provisions are blowing me out of the water.
Later, as I was folding clothes, I stopped to stare at my grandmother. “You knew this ‘anointing’ stuff was coming all along, didn’t you, Mattie?”
“It’s His standard operating procedure,” she said mildly. “At least in my life experience.”
“So if it’s got God’s blessing for whatever it is you’re doing, it seems to go more smoothly?”
“He certainly knows how to smooth a path when He wants to. My whole Bible study group will be praying for you, Cassia.”
Off on a wing and a prayer. I’m not usually the impulsive type, and here I am, tripping off to Africa with people and money that were dumped into my lap, in an attempt to save children from starving to death.
It’s been a busy week.
There is no one but God for me to depend upon to get through this one.
And the rolling in my stomach has turned from dread into excitement.
CHAPTER 36
Without Winslow my apartment is like a morgue. Sometimes I forget just how much company the big lug is to me. I even start to fill his bowl with water before I remember that he’s at Jane and Dave’s house. I have no doubt that he is in good hands—they just aren’t mine.
Fears and questions started to set in as dusk approached. By this time tomorrow I’ll be winging my way across the world doing what, I feel sure, is God’s will for my life.
When one prays as Isaiah did in chapter six, verse eight, “Lord, I’ll go! Send me,” it opens up, as Mattie says, a whole new can of worms. There’s wisdom in the old cliché “Be careful what you pray for—you might get it.” I prayed that I could serve God with my unplanned winnings. Little did I know that it would involve inoculations, hiking boots and antidiarrheal medication. Ewww.
I’ve grown spiritually through this, that’s for sure, stretched and pulled like a piece of stiff elastic. The more I stewed and flapped about, the fewer answers I got. But now my bags are packed, my apartment cleaned, the refrigerator emptied, the newspaper and mail stopped, the bills paid and my goodbyes said. Nothing left to do but wait.
Saying goodbye to Ken had not been easy.
“Have you lost your mind, Cassia? Burundi? That’s the edge of the earth! Go there and you’ll fall off.”
“Earth’s round, Ken. Have you heard?”
“Don’t be cute with me, Cassia. How can I be sure you’ll be okay?” There was real apprehension in his voice.
“God’s my travel agent. We’ll be fine. I’m traveling with a couple who have been to Africa several times. They know the ropes.”
“Cassia, if anything were to happen to you over there…”
“Ken…”
“Cassia, I love you. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. The world is a better place with you in it.” He drew a deep breath.” But I’m proud of you, too, because you’re doing the right thing. And sometimes the right thing is the hardest thing to do.” Ken’s heart is pure gold.
Randy wasn’t much easier. “You can’t! You’ve got the money—hire someone to go for you and check it out. Let them write up a proposal for your approval. Philanthropists aren’t this hands-on, Cassia!”
“Some are.”
Randy’s groan across the line sounded as if he was being filleted as we spoke.
But ultimately he, too, gave in and gave his blessing.
“I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
“Randy…”
“As a friend. Far be it from me to stand in the way of God.”
I am free. That, alone, overwhelms me. And it scares me spitless.
I was grateful when the doorbell rang. Someone had arrived to distract me from my own racing thoughts.
The man on the other side of the door introduced himself as Terrance Becker, Adam’s agent. He stood on my welcome mat awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, dressed in crisp dark pants, a pristine white shirt and striped tie. I had a hunch he’d left his also-perfect suit coat in the car.
“What can I do for you?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Frankly, I’m not sure. I really can’t even explain why I came other than…a feeling.”
Nothing surprises me these days. After all, I’m a lottery winner ready and willing to fly to Africa in the morning. A literary agent I’d never met before appearing on my doorstep is small potatoes.
“I feel there’s something you should know.”
I let him in, then cocked my head and waited for him to continue.
“I’m partly responsible for the lottery story Adam is writing.” His face flushed red. “He came back from a trip to Africa completely burned out. He told me only a fraction of what he’d seen and done while there, and even that was difficult for me to hear. I can’t imagine all he and his photographer faced.”
I nodded. I couldn’t imagine it either.
“He was ready to quit writing altogether. I suggested that instead of going from difficult story to difficult story that he look for some ‘brain candy’ to write about. I thought that if he did something that wasn’t so intense, he’d remember how much he loves his work. Not having Adam Cavanaugh on the job would be a blow to the human rights groups that depend on him to get the word out about what’s happening in the forgotten parts of the world.” Terrance hung his head and his shoulders slumped. “I had no idea that it would tear him up even more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’d committed—actually, I’d committed for him—to people who wanted to buy the story. Adam’s a man of his wo
rd, but he felt really low about not telling you that he’d been ‘spying’ on you. He wanted you to know what was going on, but we both assumed that you’d say no if we approached you.” Terrance looked pleading. “You don’t know how unique you are—a Christian woman accidentally winning the lottery and dead set on giving it all away. Cassia, I don’t ever remember hearing a story like that before.”
“Probably not,” I agreed, “but that doesn’t make what Adam did right….”
“He knew that. He’d decided to tell you what was up. Had he been earning the money just for himself, he would’ve backed out and returned the advances.”
“What do you mean, ‘had he been earning the money just for himself’?”
“He’s giving what he earns on your story to relief groups working in Burundi. His earnings are going to provide funds for children there. I know I didn’t help, telling him I could get a book contract….”
“A book about me?” I squeaked, more surprised than angry. “That could earn money?” Oh, puleeeze!
Terrance named a sum that, before the lottery fiasco, I would have thought exceedingly significant.
“And that’s why he kept this secret?”
“At first he thought it would be easy to tell you. Then, as he got to know you, he felt like no matter what he did, he was going to betray someone. He realized that you wouldn’t tolerate his toying with your life.”
“You’ve got that right.”
And he thought it better to betray me than the children. I didn’t approve of his deceit, but Adam’s struggle was coming into clearer focus. Good intentions and bad deeds.
“If he’d just told me…” I couldn’t finish. I don’t know what I would have said or done. We’d barely met. I was in shock. Terrance was right. Once I realized how many crooks and scam artists are out there, I might have turned him down flat or chased him off with the faux Aunt Naomi.
Terrance held out the manila folder he’d been clutching. “Something compelled me to make a copy of this and come over here. I’m sorry if I intruded.”