by Dan Doyle
“God, this place makes Northern Ireland look peaceful,” he thought.
But of greatest interest to Jim Keating was the frequent reference in his readings to the strength and agility of many Burundians. And then he viewed a remarkable picture that appeared in a dated copy of National Geographic. In the photo was a lithe and long-limbed Tutsi standing, Jim envisioned, as if he were waiting for a basketball to be placed in his hands.
At heart, Jim Keating was still a coach, and the picture of the towering boy gripped his attention. To Jim, the boy had the look—an insight hard to describe and one which, in Jim’s view, could only be seen by an experienced coach. It was a look of confidence combined with quiet intensity, qualities that seemed requisite to success as an athlete.
He reflected on the situation for several more days, but the picture and the chance to help people in need were the clinchers. He finally called Barry and said simply, “Barry, I’m ready.”
“I’m thrilled, Jim,” boomed Barry. “Give me a bit of time to sort out the paperwork, including your flight, and I’ll be back in touch. The next step will be for you to come down here for a briefing—about a day and half in length. It’ll be a crash course on Burundi and the type of protocol that you’ll have to be aware of when you get over there. Also, I’ll tell you more about Cynthia Foster, our US ambassador to Burundi. She’s a remarkable woman, and I’m sure you’re going to like her. Believe me, she’ll be very pleased to hear that you’re coming.”
In Washington, Barry Sklar hung up and slumped in his chair. He had put himself on the line for this job, but did so with a strong conviction that Jim would do great work in Burundi. However, pushing such an unusual appointment through the bureaucracy had not been easy. With the support of Ambassador Foster, an old and dear friend, he had succeeded by selling Jim as the person to hire. Due to Barry’s persuasiveness, and the ambassador’s backing, a massive job search that would have tied the position up interminably—and probably prevented his childhood mate from getting the job—was avoided. And when a colleague raised the issue of Jim’s “racial insensitivity” from newspaper reports of his firing, Barry sat down with his fellow worker and told him about the real Jim Keating.
“When I was a kid, there was a no-holds-barred approach to abusing Jews. Somehow, Jim, unlike practically every other kid in our neighborhood, intuitively knew that this was wrong.”
Barry then leaned forward and said, “In a very real sense, Jim Keating made sure that I could enjoy my childhood.”
Barry Sklar’s next step would be to develop the briefing session. There would be much for Jim Keating to learn before he got on the plane to a remote and troubled destination.
Barry kept in touch with Jim every other day or so, sent him volumes of information, and finalized the many elements of Jim’s mission. Four weeks to the day his old friend gave his assent, Barry called with upbeat news.
“General Jim, everything is set. I’m sending you an airline ticket to Washington. You’ll be here for a day and a half of briefings, then on to Burundi.”
Jim had grown increasingly excited about his approaching adventure. Although he still topped off his Prozac with a shot of scotch before falling into a restless sleep, his waking hours slowly took up residence in future promise rather than past despair.
In their phone conversations, Barry had sensed new expectation in Jim’s voice and he was determined to keep this hope fueled. He had organized a comprehensive briefing that would not only provide Jim with the necessary information for his mission, but would also emphasize the gravity of the project. The briefing would include meetings with various State Department officials, as well as a private meeting with the Burundian Ambassador to the United States.
Jim undertook all of the necessary preparation for a long absence. He issued twelve post-dated checks to his landlord, Bill Perkins, to cover his anticipated year of non-residence.
“I won’t leave you in the lurch,” he said to Perkins. “If I decide to stay longer, I’ll let you know well in advance.”
He also sent a brief and affectionate letter to his daughter, reaffirming his absolute love for her and his hope that she would soon “don the badge of responsibility.” He waited several days, until he was certain she had received his note, and then called her. Sarah Keating told her father how proud she was of his new appointment.
“Are you feeling good about the project, Daddy? Because I am.
“I am, too, but I’m traveling light in case this turns out to be another disappointment,” said Jim.
“It won’t be a disappointment, Dad. This one is a win. . . . I’m sure. And by the way, I’m coming to Worcester to see you.”
At 11:30 AM, two days before Jim’s departure, Sarah pulled her 1984 Mustang to the curbstone of 14 Stoneland Road. Her dad was sitting on the front steps. Before she could open the car door, Jim was standing beside it, arms open and his heart bumper to bumper with love for his only child.
After this visit, they would not see each other for a very long time, so the two had already agreed to sail around the winds of contention.
“I just want to be with my Daddy, who I love so much,” Sarah had said in their last phone conversation.
“You know . . . I can’t wait to see you, my precious daughter,” Jim had replied, a jigger of emotion intoxicating his senses.
Sarah had driven from Rochester, where she and her boyfriend were both teaching English at a public high school. Jim knew that she needed to drive back that evening, as she could only get the one day off. He planned a series of activities that would end with an early dinner, for he did not want his daughter driving too late at night—a viewpoint he had embraced the very day she got her driver’s license.
The itinerary began with a tour of Jim’s apartment. On the way up the stairs, he said, almost apologetically, “It’s perfect for me, sweetie. Nothing fancy, but all I need.”
As Sarah looked around the sparse quarters, she recalled the beautiful homes she had grown up in and felt a surge of empathy for her father’s plight in life.
“It is perfect, Daddy.”
Jim and Edna had uprooted from their hometown back in 1950. Their parents had all passed by the time Sarah was born, and she had only been to Worcester once as a small child. Dad and daughter began with lunch at Alice’s, where owners Alice and Paul gave Sarah the royal, or as they called it, “Main South,” treatment. Then they spent the afternoon touring the city, starting with a long walk around the grounds of Clark University, Edna’s alma mater, followed by a car drive through the Main South neighborhood, with brief stops at both Jim and Edna’s childhood homes so that Sarah could take photos. They continued on to the Worcester Art Museum, which Sarah found to be one of the finest she had ever visited.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Jim. “It’s one of Worcester’s treasures, and Mom loved this place. You know, my hometown has a lot of good things going for it,” he said, with no small amount of pride.
“It sure does, Daddy. And so will Burundi.”
Dinner was at the Parkway Diner, an establishment that had been open for more than fifty years . . . and the favorite Worcester restaurant of Jim and Edna.
“When I took your Mom to the St. Peter’s Senior Prom— our first date—this is where we came to dinner. Just like now, it was inexpensive, and the food was great.”
Sarah beamed and said, “Tell me more. I love hearing about you and Mom.”
“Well, not only was the prom your Mom’s first date, but it was Mom’s first time in an Italian restaurant. In fact, it was her first time eating Italian food!”
“Oh my God! And Mom loved Italian food—and she cooked it so well, Daddy.”
Jim smiled, shook his head, and said, “She sure did. And you know, Sarah, Mom’s recipe for meatballs and marinara sauce—or ‘gravy’ as my Italian Worcester friends called it— well, she got it right here.”
“Really! How?”
“Well, the owners of the restaurant at that time,
Mr. and Mrs. Incutto, took a special interest in your mom and me. So, we invited them to our wedding. At the reception, Mrs. Incutto gave mom the secret recipe. She told mom that she was the only person outside of the Incutto family to ever receive it!”
He added, “By the way, Mom was only a sophomore and probably the youngest girl at the prom. I think you know this, but she was chosen as Prom Queen that night. To be honest, I don’t think there was even a close second. But you know, Sarah, Mom was so gracious that I never detected any jealousy that night—or, for that matter, at any time—from the neighborhood girls.”
From the time she was a child, whenever Sarah broached a topic she found embarrassing, she would momentarily press her palms against her forehead, smile, and then speak up.
As soon as he saw his daughter’s hands move toward her forehead, Jim grinned and said, “Am I going to blush about what’s coming?”
Sarah laughed hard, then clasped her hands with Jim’s and said, “Daddy, Mummy once told me that at the end of that night, the best you could do was a peck on her cheek.”
Sarah tilted her head back and laughed joyously.
“Now, let me defend myself,” said Jim, blushing, but reveling in the conversation.
“When I walked your mom to her front door that night, guess who I saw peeking out of the curtains.”
Sarah was still laughing heartily and could not answer for the moment.
“When you’re ready, take a guess.”
“Okay, Daddy. Hm . . . Grampa.”
“Well, you’re only half right. It was actually Grampa and Grandma.”
Sarah paused for a second and then said wistfully, “I so wish I could have met them.”
“So do I, sweetie. They were great, as were my mom and dad. You know, I got very close to your grampa and grandma. They brought the best of Ireland with them to Worcester.”
Dinner wrapped up and the two headed back to Stoneland Road. There was relative silence in the car as both began to feel the onset of sadness over what was sure to be a long separation. When they arrived at Jim’s home, he hugged his daughter and found that he did not want to let her go.
“Daddy,” Sarah started, tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t begin to say how much I love you.” She then wiped away the tears and said, “Oh, and here is a card with a message that you can read later tonight.”
Jim embraced his daughter again and held back his own tears. Moments later, he stood at the curbside, watching Sarah’s Mustang make a U-turn and head toward Main Street.
When he entered his apartment, it was only 7:45 PM. But despite the early hour, he decided to prepare for bed. When he was under the covers, he reached for the card.
It was a beautiful card, set in Africa, with dazzling stars above.
He opened it and read his daughter’s message:
My Dear Daddy:
There are times when I find poetry to be the best way to deliver a message. Here is my message to you:
There are those
Who propose
That to find
True enlightenment
One must descend
To the
nethermost depths
Of human emotion.
There is truth
to the notion
For no man
Can brush
The Comet Cloud
Until he enters
The black hole,
Stares down
His despair
And cranks up
His comeback.
My beloved Father
In a
faraway land
Your comeback awaits
And so do
countless Burundians
children and adults
in need of your wisdom
And your great goodwill
All my love, Sarah
Jim turned out the light and embraced the comfort of darkness. He said his nightly prayer to St. Jude, special advocate for those in need of hope.
He then said something to himself that he had not said for a very, very long time.
I am blessed.
15
On the morning of Jim’s departure for Washington, DC, he awoke troubled, not wanting to get out of bed.
Am I ready for this?
But then the phone rang—an unintended but fortuitous electric shock.
“This is your friendly wake up call,” said a high-spirited Barry Sklar. “I’ve got a bunch of bureaucrats waiting to meet you. I’ll have a driver pick you up at Washington National. Look for the placard that says ‘Coach Keating.’”
The cheerful connection replaced Jim’s second thoughts with brighter ones. He finished packing and headed for Worcester Airport, christened with new hope.
Jim was greeted at Washington National by a uniformed State Department driver. Such chauffeured service was generally limited to high-ranking diplomats, but Barry Sklar wanted his old friend to get VIP treatment and was able to call in a favor with the driver, whom he knew personally.
“It’s only a fifteen-minute ride to Mr. Sklar’s office,” said the driver. “He’s really looking forward to seeing you. How was your flight?”
“Good,” saidJim. “DC’s pretty impressive from the air.” Jim was impressed during the limo ride as well. As they crossed the bridge into the city and drove by the Mall, it occurred to him, This is the Capitol. I’m working for these people. He liked the thought.
Barry was waiting in the lobby. After nearly forty years, the reunion was poignant for both men.
“General Jim . . . boy, it’s great to see you!”
“It’s great to see you too, Barry,” said Jim, unable to find words that would truly reflect his feelings.
Barry beheld the influence that the march of circumstances had had on his old friend’s appearance. Yet the coach’s handshake was as firm as ever, and his message was well timed.
“I can’t tell you how excited I am about this opportunity.”
Barry was still in possession of the same engaging look of mischief that Jim had latched on to so many years ago. And Jim could see that his host had done what he always said he would—practice a fit-for-life philosophy. Barry’s 5’10” frame remained notably thin. His narrow, angular face was nearly wrinkle free, and his dark eyebrows were offset by white, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed white beard. He looked like he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ: dark, pin-striped suit, dart collar, rep tie. His bright almond eyes seemed magnified behind oval, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Barry, you are ‘squared away,’ as we used to say in the Army. I’m glad I’m wearing a tie!”
“You look great, Jim—the casual coach.”
As they made their way to Barry’s office, Barry was further encouraged that Jim asked several pertinent questions about the Burundi materials he had been sent.
Moments later, Barry introduced Jim to his secretary, Harriet Parker, who got up and came around her desk to greet him.
“What a pleasure it is to meet you,” she said with a sincerity that made Jim feel good. “I feel like I know you. Mr. Sklar’s told me so many wonderful things about you, and, Lord knows, I’ve typed your name often enough over the past few weeks.”
“Jim, okay if we eat in the office?” asked Barry. “I can have Harriet send out for pastrami on rye—what you used to like at our house. That’ll give us more time to talk.”
“Sounds great.”
Barry and Jim played four full quarters of reminiscence, and the coach welcomed this exercise of nostalgia. He was struck by how quickly the two seemed to bond; their lost years immediately yielded to the strength of their friendship.
Barry finally steered the conversation to the cardinal point.
“Jim, today and tomorrow you’ll see how important this project is. First thing you ought to know is that we’ve received an early morning cable stating that things have gotten worse. The streets of Bujumbura are nearly empty. The cable says it’s like a ghost town. Abo
ut 100,000 more Hutus have fled over the border and on into Kenya. To be honest, after we got the cable, we had a quick discussion about postponing your trip. But our embassy maintains that Americans are safe and that the violence will likely subside in the next few days. In any event, I want you to understand something.”
Leaning forward and establishing firm eye contact, Barry continued, “You don’t have to go now. We can put this thing on hold for awhile.”
“Barry,” Jim said gravely, “my bags are packed and I have nowhere else to go.”
Barry nodded and handed Jim a copy of the itinerary.
“Your first meeting is with Roger Peterson in an hour. Pete has been with the USIA for about twenty years and much of his work has been in Burundi. He’ll review the Hutu and Tutsi conflict and give you some suggestions on how to deal with the two tribes.”
Jim scanned the itinerary as Barry continued his briefing.
“Then you’ll meet with the Burundian ambassador. He’s a very depressed man, a Hutu who has lost several of his family members due to the fighting, including a son and his wife. . . .”
Barry paused for a moment, wishing he had not provided the last detail.
“The ambassador has barely heard anything from his government, what with all of the chaos. But he’s glad you’re going. At this stage, he’ll accept any form of help. . . . The rest of your day will be taken up at a session with the medical people. They’ll give you a lot of information, important information, on what foods to stay away from, what eating habits to adhere to. Listen to everything they say, Jim.”
“I will, for sure.”
“I told you about this damn dinner meeting I’ve got tonight, so Pete will take you to supper. Then we’ll have breakfast, review everything, and I’ll drive you out to Dulles.”
“Everything sounds so well planned, Barry. Really thorough.”
The meetings went as Barry had predicted, and the session with the ambassador was especially grim. His name was Audace Ngezeko, and his forlorn eyes belied his perfunctory smile. In clear English, he related to Jim his great hope when a fellow Hutu had been democratically elected as president with a pledge of peace displacing civil unrest. He then recounted his devastation over the violence that had engulfed his country, bringing it to a state of near anarchy.