“No. Thank you for working on it.”
“Not a problem.”
Then suddenly there was an unexpected, unbearable silence.
“Mary Beth is swamped in the clinic. But she asked me to remind you that the vaccine would be dropped in three days.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
Denice pursed her lips, deep in thought, then turned to leave. When she arrived at the door, she hesitated before opening it. “Mary Beth is like a daughter to me,” she began. “And, as a mother, I don’t want to see my little girl’s heart get broken, all over again.”
“Who’s to say that I’ll break her heart?”
“For one, she’s a missionary. And you’re a soldier. In the middle of Afghanistan.”
“Well, thanks for stating the obvious,” I retorted.
“Are you in love with her?”
I was more than a little surprised at her frankness.
“Because if you are, then which one of you is going to give up their life for the other?”
I hesitated. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Really? When—just after the wedding?” she added a little sarcastically. “One of you is obviously going to have to sacrifice for the other, or you’ll never survive.”
“And she calls me the glass-half-empty guy,” I said sarcastically, turning away as I wrapped the scarves around me, preparing to go into the cold.
Denise turned and walked back to me, taking my hands in hers. “This is her life. This is where she wants to be.”
“If you know her so well, then you must know she wants to be a nurse practitioner. And that she’s thinking of going back to the States to study when her contract is up.” When she didn’t respond, I added. “You see, she’s a big girl. She can make up her own mind. Mary Beth can… we can… make a life anywhere.”
“Remember, she could have left anytime she wanted. In fact, everyone encouraged her to leave, but she wouldn’t go. Henry died, and she still stayed.”
“Maybe she’s ready to move on.”
“Or maybe she’s so caught up in this little… whatever this is—infatuation—that she’s not thinking clearly.” Denice lowered her voice. “Look, Eddie. I know it’s none of my business. And, you seem like a really nice guy. But you’ve known her what, a few weeks? If that.”
When my eyes met hers, I smiled sadly. “It’s as though I’ve known her my whole life,” I confessed. Then I glanced down, wrestling with what to say before looking into her eyes again, no longer feeling confrontational. “Okay, you seem to know her better than anyone. What do you think I should do?”
“I can’t tell you that, Eddie. But I do know that before you consider asking her to give this up, that you’re sure—really sure—that you’re ready to live with her giving all this up.”
And for the first time in a really long time, I didn’t know what to say. I had no snappy comebacks, no counter-punch to deflect her wisdom, not even a damned “whatever.”
Denice, realizing that she’d given me something to consider, leaned up and kissed my cheek before leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The religious leader’s home sat in the center of their village. From the outside, I guessed it to be a five or six room house with a bigger courtyard than either Mary Beth or Denice had. Though poor, the mullah’s mehmaan khana—or, the room where men received their guests—was expansive. Elegant Persian rugs adorned the floors; decorative linens were strewn across crude walls. In the center of the room was a feast, spread out on a long, elevated board. He generously offered for me to sit, and I did, on one of the comfortable, colorful pillows where the tribal council and the mullah’s male family members weren't already sitting. Then he poured me a dark, aromatic tea, which he claimed was the best for digestion.
I glanced around as he offered me a treat from a plate of sweets he held in his hand. The hallways and the rooms beyond were barely visible, the women hidden by curtains. In the States, if it were my house, I would have offered a home tour. But here, such things aren’t even considered. Who would care how the other rooms of a simple mud house would look? There’s no giant television or stereo system to show off. What’s the point?
An older woman and several young girls, whom he introduced as his mother and youngest daughters, entered a moment later carrying bowls in which we were to wash our fingers. His mother handed each of us a small linen cloth on which to dry our hands before proceeding to her son. When he’d finished, he dismissively waived his hand, and they turned and disappeared down the dark hallway.
We feasted on fresh naan made by his wife and mother in their courtyard from grain they’d hidden in their cellar, which was nothing more than a hole dug into the ground. Cooking with dung dried out earlier in the year for fuel. The meal was delicious and plentiful and included fresh meats, which meant they must have slaughtered one of their dwindling herd just for me. Here it would be considered bad manners if I had told them they needn’t have bothered. For them, hospitality is something in which to take pride. They would give up their last egg-laying chicken if it meant providing me with what they considered a proper meal.
It was getting late, and I was tired, not having slept much the night before. But, I sensed there was something on the mullah’s mind, so I stayed until he had excused his other guests, and it was only he and I sitting against the wall.
Then his eldest son, Abdullah, brought out what I’ve always considered an interesting and perplexing invention. The hookah. Having gone through nicotine withdrawal over the past several weeks, it was a welcome respite from the hiatus. If I had known he had one of these, I would have come over the first time he invited me. His was Turkish, made of brass and glass, exquisitely painted and patterned with jewels. There were two ivory mouthpieces attached to long tubes. Now, I don’t mind saying that I’ve had very few phobias in my life and that one of them is drinking after someone else. So, the thought of putting my mouth on it nauseated me. However, the idea of getting a nicotine hit after doing without for so long far outweighed the fear of putting my mouth on something that possibly hundreds of other people had used.
Smoking is a problem over here. By fifteen, over a third of the boys here have tried it, and almost 85% of them have been exposed to second-hand smoke. Afghanistan has one of the highest death rates from cigarettes in the world. Stats guy, remember? It could be because cigarettes are about thirty cents a pack, or possibly that smoking from a hookah for an hour is the equivalent of smoking almost a hundred cigarettes. As a young soldier in Iraq, I paid dearly for my first hookah experience. It began with a headache that didn’t go away for three days and a bad taste in my mouth that didn’t go away for weeks. That being said, I was looking forward to my first hit in as long.
I took my time and didn’t put my lips to the mouthpiece, but merely inhaled as the vapor escaped. It was a smooth, fruity, sweet taste, the nicotine flavor not being over-powering. After many minutes, satisfied that I wasn’t an amateur, the mullah leaned back against the wall of his home, still watching me.
“I understand that you will be traveling to help vaccinate other villages.”
I nodded through the mist hanging in the air between us as he watched me, curiously. To dispel any question as to my intentions, I stated, “I have some medical training, and with the doctor gone, I felt the nurse could use some help.”
He slowly nodded as he inhaled deeply.
“As well, I felt she needed a male companion that could watch out for her. Protect her.”
Mullah Akhssey nodded again. “My son, Abdullah, will be traveling with you on your trip. He and Abraham will help you with customs and concerns in each village.” He looked away for a moment, suddenly turned back, his eyes meeting mine. “Rafi returned yesterday from a visit to my brother’s village four kilometers from here, by the river. They found an American rifle.” He let the words linger there as he continued to watch my eyes.
I closed them and inhaled a little d
eeper this time as the mullah continued his commentary.
“They are wondering where it came from.” He inhaled again. “Whether it fell before the crash a mile upriver, or maybe one of the locals bought it from an arms dealer, or,” he said coyly, “maybe from a soldier who lost it when separated from his unit.”
I inhaled slowly, looking around the vapor. “What do you think?”
“I think, a man without a rifle is one step closer to finding peace.”
I tilted my head. If only that were true.
All the time I watched him, I wondered if his son had spoken of the stranger in their village; wondered if, at any minute, there would be Taliban at the mullah’s doorstep demanding this stranger’s blood. My blood.
He must have seen the worry in my eyes. “My son, our village does not concern itself with the worries of the world. We desire to live in peace, and to honor Allah with our prayers and lives.”
I nodded gratefully. I was already getting lightheaded from all of the vapor.
As if sensing my need to leave, he stood. I followed his lead, thanking him for the meal and the company. I told him I appreciated his and his village’s care for me. Then I said I would not be here much longer so that there was no need for some to fear for my presence.
He assured me that my presence was not a burden to anyone, but a blessing. I bowed and nodded and backed from his affluent home. Well, affluent by Afghan standards. As I made my way across the town to Mary Beth’s, I looked up into the snow that fell upon me, pulling my coat tighter around me. The air smelled crisp and clean. How could everything about one place be both inviting and intimidating at the same time?
Two days. The vaccine would be here in less than two days. Within a week, we would be visiting some of the most remote villages in Afghanistan. In the world. If I could just find a radio in one of the other communities, or God-willing, a working satellite phone, I could contact the base and at least let someone know I was alive. And if I could do so without drawing attention to yours truly, and without broadcasting on a channel that the enemy was monitoring, then all the better.
I smiled to myself, eager to meet the challenge. I’m Special Forces. Piece of cake.
Chapter Thirty
The next day was spent rebuilding the wall on the clinic and getting the generator running. The number of people that braved the cold to help doubled, so the repairs went much faster. The remainder of the day was spent teaching them how to improve or construct their walls using things they already had available. They were not only intrigued but anxious to know how they could repair their structures, courtyards, homes or businesses using their discarded trash.
Roofs, however, would be a little trickier. I’m no engineer, but, maybe—with wire and tin and some sturdy crossbeams—. Just, maybe… Of course, if ice formed on the roof again, everything could potentially collapse. Again. One thing at a time, I told myself. One thing at a time.
By the end of the day, the wall to the clinic was finished, and the generator was running. And, for the first time in almost two months, the clinic had light that didn’t come from candles. Men and boys congratulated one another for their efforts, discussing what would be next. And, I was glad to have a purpose again. Nothing like being stuck in an impoverished mountain village in the middle of Afghanistan to make you reevaluate your priorities. I was struck, as I stood peeing on the side of the mountain, by what I could still do to make a difference.
Mary Beth spent the last couple of days before our trip giving Denice a refresher course on triage since she would be the only available person with any medical training for at least the next two weeks. Denice had assisted her husband many times, and this would be the first time she was on her own, but she assured Mary Beth she could handle it. Together, they packed half of the supplies Mary Beth had inventoried to take with us. It made sense that we would not only be a vaccination clinic but a traveling hospital, as needed.
I didn’t have to go looking for the religious leader, as he’d been watching our progress at the clinic and a couple of other locations where we’d begun wall repair. He nodded and smiled when he saw me. I walked to him and asked for a moment of his time. And after just ten minutes, I had given the villagers a new project.
I inquired around until I found someone with any engineering education, albeit brief. Aalem had gone to the University in heart, but left school when his father died, to take care of his family. Then I looked for the biggest and strongest young men, handed them shovels, and we began digging. I drew out for Aalem my vision, and he augmented it to assure that the structure would stand the test of time. Twelve men dug out four two-by-two- by- four holes into the cold, hard ground, overlooking their current village dump. Once Abraham helped me translate to Aalem what we were doing, I could see the light bulb go off in his eyes, and he finished drawing out plans—better plans than I had started. I knew instantly it would work, and I felt a sudden sense of pride.
When Abraham saw the diagram, he immediately shared it with his friends, and within an hour, the news had spread from one end of town, to the other. So, when they came to see the construction of their first outhouse, they came with whatever they could contribute to it. Some brought wood, others tin. And in less than two days, there was a brand new, four-seat outhouse. Well, not new, but new to them, all with repurposed materials.
It wasn’t perfect, and needed more work, but was ready to use. I even showed the men where to cut out four holes at the backside of the hill, leading to the four compartments. Then I explained how to clean them out weekly, including how they could use what came out to compost for gardening in the spring. By dropping ashes and wood chips in after each use, it would not only help mask the smell, but help with the composting process. Now if I could just teach them the benefits of toilet paper. Only, that would require me giving up mine to demonstrate, and I wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.
Baby steps.
In honor of our accomplishment, they allowed me to be the first one to use the new facilities. All eyes were upon me as I entered, and I was met with applause—amidst whispers and chuckles—when I stepped out. When I finally walked through the crowd to Mary Beth’s, there was a line of people waiting to use the new structure, if nothing else, out of curiosity.
When I arrived home, I was exhausted. My leg and shoulder ached, but I felt better than I had since arriving. However, once more, the night after I bathed, I was sweaty and filthy again. A light knock came on the door, and I answered it myself.
“Hi,” she said, meekly.
I opened the door for her to come in. As Mary Beth passed by me, I could smell the fresh bread hidden beneath the linen in her hand. She turned, holding it out for me to take. Slowly, I pulled back the worn material and leaned over to get a closer whiff.
“Zahra asked me to bring this to you.”
“Tell Zahra I said thank you,” I smiled and moved toward her table. “Join me?”
She shook her head and stayed by the door. “I have to go,” she pointed over her shoulder. “I can’t. I mean, I just,” she began, fumbling with her words before settling on, “I can’t.”
I set down the homemade gift, covered the bread; then moved to her side.
“I just wanted to remind you that we are leaving after breakfast to where they drop the vaccine. It usually takes about an hour to get there and sometimes we have to wait an hour or so, in the event of delays.”
I nodded. When Mary Beth didn’t say anything else, I pointed over my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? To eat, I mean.”
“No, thank you. I ate with Zahra and her family.” She shuffled her feet, her eyes looking everywhere except into mine. “I should go,” she added, stepping toward the door.
I walked with her, stopping when she stopped.
“Look, I wanted to tell you, you did the right thing today.”
“I did what needed to be done,” I replied.
“Please don’t make light of this. What you did was good and honor
able, and it helped a lot of people.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was something. And nowadays, that’s more than a lot of people do.”
When she looked down, her hair fell around her face. I reached over and brushed it behind her ear. When she looked back up at me, I smiled.
“See you in the morning, then?”
“See you in the morning.”
“Good night.” Then hesitantly, tentatively, she stepped through the doorway, disappearing into the darkness.
“Good night,” I said to myself, before moving to the bread. I took one slice and walked to my toshak. I laid down, if only for a moment, from sheer exhaustion. As I lay against the wall, I ate, eyes closed, savoring every warm, delicious mouthful. Then, before I even finished eating my first piece, I fell fast asleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
He was hooded and bound, this time, while being moved. But he wasn’t alone. There was a weight before him, tugging him forward, every few steps. And, he felt the drag behind him of those trying to keep up. Everyone knew better than to speak, so the only audible sounds were occasional grunts of those struggling on the path. Or the thud of a rifle against a body, if anyone dared to lag behind.
There was no way to predict where they were being moved this time. Except that there was a tightness in his chest from the elevation. And, it was affecting the others as well, from the audible wheezing in front and behind him. Snow permeated his pant leg, above the ankle and his feet felt numb. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand.
The captors didn’t say anything to their prisoners, only occasionally speaking to one another. He understood enough of the language to recognize the word sell. They were being sold. Well, that was promising. Unless, of course, they were being sold to someone who meant to make an example of them. The thought made his nausea return, and he thought he would vomit. They hadn’t eaten all day, so there was nothing to regurgitate. Yet, when he felt the acid burning his throat, he could hold it in no longer and vomited into the hood tied around his neck.
The Missionary Page 16