The apartment committee gave their report. They hadn't found anything. They didn't expect to find anything. Celestine was earning very little, and Andre nothing. The kids had to stay in school, so exactly how were the Amabos to pay for an apartment, not to mention food, a car and insurance?
Jared moved his chair next to Dr. Nickerson. It was the minister's excitement about sponsoring refugees that had stirred the congregation in the first place. Under the hum of Mrs. Lame's next topic, Jared said, “The way these four guys behave toward each other is creepy.”
Bad approach. Instead of being appalled by the Amabos, Dr. Nickerson was appalled by Jared. “Their culture and lifestyle,” said the minister predictably, “and the destructive qualities of war and long-term displacement in foreign countries have alienated them. It is our task to provide a warm, welcoming atmosphere in which they are not judged.”
Implying that Jared was providing a cold, unwelcoming atmosphere and was judging left and right. Jared kept going. “They don't even seem to like each other.”
“That's unusual? I have never noticed that you particularly like your sister.”
“Right,” said Jared, and he bailed. Mom and Dad were out, the minister was out, the committee was out. If things were wrong in this family—and they were—there you had it. Nothing Jared could do.
“Where is Mattu today?” asked Mrs. Dowling.
“They're testing him in Guidance,” said Jared.
Hunter leaned forward. “What did that African family do to deserve all this help? I don't see why refugees get to mooch forever and ever.”
Only a few weeks before, Jared had fully agreed. Now he said cautiously, “I don't think it's mooching if we offer it.”
“How come the church can't help inner-city people right here in America, who probably wouldn't mind a free car and job assistance?”
The church had had a lot of arguments about that. Luckily, those meetings had not been held at Jared's house. “Come on, Hunter. They suffered. It's okay for us to help.”
“People have to make it on their own.”
“They will,” said Jared, who wasn't so sure.
“They'll end up on welfare,” said Hunter. “That father, the one without hands. Who let him in?”
Jared felt an unexpected loyalty to his African family. Mattu was on Jared's team now, and Hunter—a friend since nursery school—was the outsider. Jared grew dizzy thinking about this.
“My ancestors got off the boat at Ellis Island,” said Hunter, “and scrabbled and sweated and saved. That's what it is to be an immigrant.”
Mrs. Dowling sensed a teaching moment. “Let's tell immigrant stories.”
Half the class put their heads down on their desks to sleep through this waste of time, but Tay said, “I have an interesting ancestor. My last name, Kinrath, is fictitious. The story is that my great-grandfather took syllables from the names of other people in line at Ellis Island and invented the name Kinrath. We don't know why he didn't use his real name, whether it was something slimy and horrible or something boring; whether he jilted a girl or murdered the mayor or just wanted adventure.”
Jared was blown away. Tay's great-grandfather had faked his way into the country. Was it so terrible, then, if Jared's four Africans had done the same?
“Oh, come on,” said Hunter. “Even generations ago, you had to have papers. You couldn't just say, ‘I think I'll be Joe Kinrath.' So either your ancestor forged his papers or stole papers or—”
“Or who cares?” said Tay.
The Refugee Assistance Panel discussed Victor's obsession with finding the strangers he had met on the plane.
“I think he wants this other family to support him,” said Victor's caseworker.
“He hasn't gone to work since his first day,” said the supervisor gloomily. “Is he asking for welfare?”
The caseworker was not sure that anybody's welfare was a priority for Victor. He said, “It's not our agency sponsoring the Amabo family. I could probably locate them, but I'd rather leave it alone. I've been telling Victor that privacy laws prevent me from getting that information. I keep thinking that once he realizes he has to support himself, he'll go to work after all.”
The caseworker did not really think that.
He thought Victor was a dangerous man. But in America you could not go to the police about a person who had not yet done anything.
Yet again the doorbell rang, and yet again the Amabos leaped out of their seats in panic. It was getting to Jared. This time Celestine knocked her coffee over. Mopsy went to Celestine's aid, Mom comforted Andre, and Dad looked as if one more visitor showed up in his house and he'd break china over their head.
So it was Jared who had to answer the door.
Because the side door opened into the garage, and because they generally kept the garage doors closed, theirs was a house where visitors mostly used the front door. Jared left the kitchen–family room, went through the spacious front hall, where the stairs curved so gracefully, and flung the door open. It never crossed his mind to see who was there first.
Big mistake. It was Emmy Wall. Crying.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Wall,” said Jared very loudly, to warn Dad. “Mom!” he yelled, giving Dad even more time to escape.
Mom rushed out of the kitchen. “Oh, Emmy! Poor you! Everything's so awful! Let me give you a hug!”
Jared sat back down at the table. If Mom had had a brain the size of a pea, she'd keep Emmy Wall out of the kitchen.
“Poor Emmy?” muttered his father. “Emmy's not poor. She has three-quarters of a million of our dollars. We're the ones who are poor.”
“Emmy, darling, I'm just heating Drew's dinner. He's working such long hours and he got home so late. Let me fix you a plate too.”
Dad stood up to leave, but he was too late.
“Oh, Drew,” said Mrs. Wall, wiping away her tears, “I knew what Brady was doing. I kept thinking everything would just go away, but it didn't and now we're really in trouble.”
“You knew?” shouted Jared's father. He slammed the four legs of his chair against the floor. “Emmy, you knew and you could have said something before it went this far? You could have told us or stopped him?”
Jared never wanted his father looking at Jared the way he was looking at Emmy Wall.
Celestine, Andre and Mattu were spellbound. Alake was stationary. Mopsy was sobbing in sympathy with somebody, but Jared couldn't tell who.
“He's a good man, really,” said Emmy. “Drew, I know you're on the committee dealing with my husband. I want the church to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“He's got the benefit of three-quarters of a million dollars. Now he needs the benefit of jail.”
Mopsy was undone by her father's fury. “Come on, Alake,” she whispered. “Let's go upstairs.”
Alake obeyed. It was like having a windup doll.
In her room, Mopsy tried to calm herself by studying her nail polish selection. She chose a glitzy fire-engine red called Filmstar and put the first coat on Alake's nails. Mopsy could never wait long enough for her own nail polish to dry, but Alake never moved anyway, so her fingers just rested where Mopsy positioned them.
Mopsy had been dressing Alake daily out of Mom's closet, and while Mom's clothes were fabulous, they were not designed with a teenage girl in mind. Was Mom taking on the view of Andre and Celestine—that Alake was just silence on a stick and they could drape her in any old piece of cloth and who cared?
Mopsy cared. She dragged Alake into Mom's walk-in closet, moving slowly down the racks, flinging aside one hanger and then another. She chose a silky black and red shirt, and red suede pants. Mopsy couldn't imagine her mother even trying on red suede, never mind buying it.
Alake stepped out of her own clothes before Mopsy had to force her, put on the red trousers and buttoned up the silken shirt. Mopsy stood her in front of the full-length mirror.
Alake pivoted slowly, checking herself at every angle. Then, arching thin fingers over her h
ead like a ballerina, the fresh polish glittering and a perfect match for the trousers, Alake lightly touched her hair and tilted her head questioningly at Mopsy.
Alake was communicating.
This was great, because Mopsy was sick and tired of silence. The most fun thing in life was talking. “Hair is everything,” she agreed. “Well, I guess not everything. I guess staying alive and having something to eat is actually everything. I've sort of gotten used to that train wreck on your head, but what you need is elegance. I totally see you modeling on a runway in a fashion show.”
Then didn't Alake strut across the bedroom exactly like a high-fashion model. She swung her hips at an invisible audience, bowed to Mopsy's applause and sashayed off.
How could Alake know what a fashion show was? Andre and Celestine and Mattu had seen so little television they couldn't tell a cop show from the morning news, or car commercials from interior decorating shows.
On a shelf sat Mom's little wicker basket for mending. Its lid was open, and sitting on the neatly arranged spools of thread was a pair of sharp, dainty scissors.
Mopsy picked up the scissors. She marched Alake back into their bathroom, set the yellow ducky wastebasket in the middle of the floor and said, “Lean over this as if you're throwing up, Alake. I'm cutting your hair.” Because after all, Alake's hair couldn't possibly look worse, only better. Mopsy snipped off the worst tangles and then snipped off the second layer of knots.
Alake put her thumb and first finger about half an inch apart and gestured toward the scissors.
“That's very short,” said Mopsy dubiously.
Alake nodded, which was thrilling from the communication standpoint.
“Okay. It'll still be longer than Mattu's. You have a pretty head, Alake. It's like your face, bony and dramatic. You probably photograph very well, although in your picture from Africa I have to say you didn't look this good.” Mopsy clipped happily. Maybe she would be a hairdresser when she grew up instead of a prosecuting attorney or a zoo veterinarian.
“Oh, Alake!” breathed Mopsy. “Look in the mirror! You are beautiful! I can't wait for everybody to see you.”
“We have homework,” said Jared, glaring until Mattu tore himself away from the scene in the kitchen and came reluctantly after him. Up the stairs they went.
Voices followed them: Emmy sobbing, Dad yelling, Mom pleading for peace. It was like a representation of the world: one country paying for its greed, one country fighting back in rage, one country trying to stop them.
Jared could hear Mopsy cooing in her bedroom. Didn't she ever understand anything? Didn't she realize that Dad was coming apart this very minute, in this very house? That Dad was so close to smacking somebody—
Too close.
Jared changed his mind about how to handle this. “Come with me, Mattu. Whatever I say, you go with it. Got it?” Jared stomped back downstairs, planted himself in front of his father and said, in a voice that sickeningly resembled Mopsy's, “You know what, Dad? I had this brilliant idea. If we turn on the outdoor spotlights and light up the whole driveway, you can give Mattu his first driving lesson tonight. The sooner he can drive, the sooner they'll be independent.” Jared took his father's hand, the way Mopsy ten times a day took Alake's.
Mattu was right on cue. “You mean it? I can start driving? Tonight?” he cried, as if he too had spent sixteen years waiting for this minute.
Jared scooped up the car keys and handed them over.
“I will watch,” said Andre, moving to Dad's other side, and he and Jared swept Dad out of the kitchen, down the back hall, past the laundry room and into the garage.
Jared pressed the button to raise the automatic door and hit the floodlights.
“Why didn't you tell me these lights were here?” said Celestine, tagging along. “I would always want them on.”
“I forgot,” admitted Jared. “We like the dark so we can see the stars.”
Dad showed Mattu forward and reverse, warming to the task because he didn't want dents in his beloved car and because he was a born teacher. A hundred yards backward, a hundred yards forward, Dad and Mattu traveled the driveway over and over.
Andre said to Jared, “You are a good son.”
Upstairs, Mopsy decided to do a test. She would parade Alake in front of everybody in the kitchen. Alake's stunning presence would give the three bickering adults something else to think about. And Mopsy would find out what it took to get Celestine and Andre's attention. They had not once acted like a mom and dad. Surely they would notice how terrific Alake looked in black and red. Surely they would admire the daring new haircut.
Mopsy headed for the stairs. “Come on, Alake. Let's show off to your mother and father.”
Alake hung back. She looked pleadingly at Mopsy.
What am I doing? Mopsy thought. Tests are for school. I can't test Andre and Celestine, and I can't test Alake either. Home is where nobody tests you.
Twenty-one days were left. He had to find the Amabos and get to New York City.
But Victor could not ask the refugee agency for help, because the only thing they could talk about was work. He had nothing to do all day except wander. He no longer had television, because the Sudanese men had been paying for the cable and Victor had paid no bills. He found bars where he could watch sports television.
Day by day his rage increased.
He considered torturing the resettlement staff, but they really didn't seem to know where the Amabos were. Once he telephoned the New York City number. No one answered. It was possible to leave a message but Victor didn't. Until he found the Amabos, Victor had nothing to sell.
THE AMABOS HAD BEEN LIVING with them for more than three weeks when Mom turned on the TV and the weather forecast was for snow. “It's about time,” she said. “We're having such a wimpy winter.” She couldn't look out the windows, because they were covered as if in a wartime blackout, so she flung open the back door to put her face right into the wind. Then, with difficulty, she slammed the door on the gale. She was drenched by rain. “I guess it isn't snowing yet,” she said, laughing. “It'll turn to snow during the night. Is anybody's bedroom window open?”
Celestine and Andre would never dream of opening a window. Alake's fingers never touched anything, that the Finches knew of, and Mopsy liked her room cozy (stale, in Jared's opinion). Only Jared was a big fan of fresh air. His windows were always open. He trotted upstairs.
He had forgotten Mattu's boxes of ash.
Water had blown in and pooled on the wide window shelf. The bottom of each precious box was dark and buckled.
Horrified, Jared slammed the window down. There was no way to pretend this had not happened. Why did he have to be in charge of refugees and their stuff, especially disgusting stuff like dead people's ashes?
It seemed reasonable to move the boxes to a dry place. Jared lifted one and the bottom fell out. The cremated remains of a grandparent slopped around in a gritty puddle. Jared even got bone mud on his fingers. He wiped them off against the dry top of the box. The cardboard was so weak that this ripped the side seam, and the rest of the contents spilled onto the carpet.
Jared turned on his desk lamp to illuminate the extent of the disaster.
The bone pieces that were still dry were gray and irregular like gravel. But the wet bone bits gleamed. They were pretty. In fact, they were enchanting, which did not seem like a quality bones would have.
Jared forgot to be queasy. He picked up the largest wet piece. It puzzled him. Wouldn't bone have a sort of perforated look? Wouldn't it be all but weightless after cooking in a fire? Jared held his wet pebble up to the lightbulb. A streak of color and fire shot out.
It's a diamond, thought Jared. A rough diamond.
Jared ran his fingers through the bone mud. Mattu had smuggled uncut diamonds out of Africa. Dozens of them.
Victor discovered coffee shops. There he could sit for hours in air-conditioned comfort, sipping coffee and watching people. Many customers spent their time stari
ng into folding computers and typing on tiny keyboards. Victor asked for a demonstration. The person he asked was so fascinated by his own computer that he did not even look up. “Sure,” he said, scrolling through the front page of a newspaper and clicking through sports and a celebrity video and a piece about the war zone in the Middle East. He threw a smile in the general direction of Victor. “You can find anybody or anything on the Internet,” he said.
“You can find people?” said Victor.
“Easy.”
“I do not have a computer and I do not know how to use them.”
“No problem. Go to the library. The computers are free. The librarians do it for you.”
Jared had definitely never imagined playing in dead people's ashes. If that was what this was. More likely, Mattu had scooped some ashes up from some old campfire, and calling them “my grandparents” was a brilliant lie by a clever smuggler.
Jared smoothed away the fingerprints he had left in the mud.
The pebble—or raw diamond—or weird shiny glowing bone—was oddly warm in his palm. He slid it into his jeans pocket and ran downstairs.
Everybody was in the family room.
Celestine was working hard on her new hobby—clipping grocery store coupons, which she studied constantly, drawing up new and exciting shopping lists. She loved the arithmetic of whether canned tuna was cheaper at Super Stop & Shop or the Food Mart. She was eager to save fifty cents here and twenty-five cents there. Every day she came home from scrubbing toilets and asked when that unknown wonder, her paycheck, was going to arrive. Would she do that if she knew she had a fortune in diamonds?
Andre was watching an old basketball rerun. Jared couldn't stand the thought of sports that were not happening right this second. It made him crazy to look at ballplayers in weird old-fashioned shorts and tight little shirts and worthless sneakers. But Andre, who would never hold a ball again in this life, was breathless with excitement, rooting for the team he'd chosen. In his lap lay the precious piece of paper from the medical center with the date and time of his next doctor's appointment. Andre loved those appointment sheets. Would he love them that much if he knew he had diamonds?
Diamonds in the Shadow Page 9
