Abundance

by Fine, Michael;

  The District #4 Health Center sits on a low hill. It looks down on the forest and the road that comes through that forest. There is a village just a few hundred yards beyond the health center on the road, a village of red mud-walled huts covered with thatched dried tan leaves gathered from the forest. When you are sitting on the porch of the health center, where the people sit when they come to see the doctor, the village is just behind you, and you can smell the charcoal fires and hear people talking, babies crying, and children being spoken to severely by their mothers.

  The four people climbed the hill as the road rose in front of the health center. One, an old woman, leaned on a stick to help her walk. The dusty white man with the beard carried a dirty rucksack. The thin dark man carried a pale blue suitcase that had seen better days. The thin tan woman walked under an umbrella to protect herself from the sun. She pulled a dusty red suitcase on wheels that left a track of two pencil-thin parallel lines in the dust of the road, a thin track that looked like the mucus track left by a snail or the vapor trail left by a jet—two straight lines that ran behind her as far as the eye could see.

  It was just past mid-afternoon. The sun was still strong, and the day was still hot. People were better off in the shade.

  Ten people sat on the porch. They were mostly women. Two with bellies were there for the big belly clinic, and three had young children, one of whom was at the breast, while other children bounced like crickets on and off the porch and on and off their mothers’ laps. There was a man with a bad eye who had a peg where his right leg belonged. Some of the people on the porch had come from the village. Others had come from villages and compounds deep in the bush. Some had walked for four hours to come to the District #4 Health Center. Some had walked eight.

  The four people walking together paused at the base of the little hill and looked at the people on the porch who looked back at them. Then the four people began to climb the rise that led to a concrete staircase.

  There was an old white extended-cab Dodge Ram parked off to the right. It was missing one wheel and was jacked up on wooden blocks.

  The dusty white man with the beard came first to the top of the stairs. Then the woman with the stick came up and the stick thumped on each stair. Next, the thin man carrying the suitcase came up, followed by the woman, who was now carrying the umbrella, which she had folded before she climbed the stairs. The dusty red suitcase she was pulling hummed and thudded at the top of each stair.

  When they had all reached the top step, the two women looked at one another. The thin man looked at the posters on the walls, one of which showed a woman with a big belly, one of which showed a mosquito drawn much larger than life next to a picture of a bed net off and then over a bed, one of which showed a man and a sitting woman together with a picture of a bed and another picture of a condom in between them, and one of which showed a crying baby that was way too thin, with a tan-green patch that you were meant to think was liquid beneath the baby’s buttocks. The people in the posters looked flat, like pancakes, instead of people with depth and shadow, which made the illustrations look primitive. But the posters were printed in bright colors—reds, blues, yellows, browns, and oranges—and the meaning of the posters was clear even if you were not from the village, from Grand Bassa County, from Liberia, or from West Africa at all.

  The white man looked at the people sitting and standing on the porch as if he was waiting to be greeted by them, but no one said a word. Everyone paid attention to the four newcomers, but no one looked at them, because it is not polite to look at those you do not know. It was also not the place of patients and people from a village or the bush to speak to newcomers in someone else’s house or compound or clinic without having been introduced.

  A thin brown middle-aged woman with a wrinkled leathery face and wearing a tan smock emerged out of the shadowy hallway of the health center holding a tattered pale green file folder. She was about to call the person whose name was written in block capital letters at the edge of the folder when she saw the four people standing together on the porch just a few feet away.

  “Hallo,” she said after a moment’s hesitation and with an intonation that made the word more a question than a statement.

  Before Levin could speak, Yvonne took a step to her left, so that she stood in front of him.

  “Whe Docta?” Yvonne asked. Where is the doctor?

  “Docta he,” the woman in the tan smock said. The doctor is here.

  “See docta?” Yvonne said. Can I see the doctor?

  “Na na. Wha trobel?” the woman said. Not now. What’s wrong?

  “She’s hurt,” Naomi said in American.

  A large bald man who was darker than the woman stepped from the shadows to see for himself. The larger man was more than twice the size of the woman with the tan smock and his form filled the doorway in which he stood. The bald man was wearing a green camouflage shirt and new blue jeans. There was a pencil behind his ear. His body blocked the light coming from the inside windows to the west, his big doughy hands holding a clipboard in front of him as if it were a weapon or a shield.

  “How can I help you?” the big man said in perfect American English with a Midwest accent, an accent which took the Americans by surprise.

  “She’s hurt,” Levin said, before Yvonne could respond. “Car flipped over.”

  “Let’s sit her down on one of these benches and we’ll take a look at her,” the big man said. Levin turned and took the handle of the dusty red suitcase from Yvonne’s hand and helped her to settle on one of the smooth wooden benches against the wall.

  The big man dropped to one knee and lifted Yvonne’s pants leg so he could see the cuts on the back of her calf, which were swollen and red. He turned the leg from side to side so he could see better.

  Levin started to go into the clinic.

  Then a slim white woman with grey streaked black hair came out of from the darkness. Her hair was pulled into a pony tail from which wisps of hair escaped.

  “Dr. Levin, I presume.” Julia said. She stepped out onto the porch, into the bright daylight.

  “Dr. Richmond,” Levin said. “Oh my God, Julia.” Levin threw his arms around her. He lifted her off the floor as he held her to him. “You are alive and well. You look so good.”

  “I am alive and well,” Julia said. “You don’t look too much the worse for wear yourself. Except for how you look. How was your trip? Introduce me.”

  Then there was a woman standing next to Julia. She was tall and dark tan, and she had wavy black straight hair that fell to her shoulders and that she pulled out of her face with an unconscious movement of her hands, something she did whenever she wanted to be sure she could see.

  And then Carl was there. He was right there with Julia. Alive again. Tall and quiet. The orangey sweet smell of his skin. How it felt to have his skin on her skin. Julia felt heat and then cold, terrible cold, in her chest and lower back. It came up fast and grabbed at her throat and at her eyes.

  When she came to, Julia was lying on a bench. Bill Levin was there. Chirelle, her new PA, was there. Jonathan was there also, standing against a wall, watching but also ready to help. And the new woman was there kneeling next to her, holding a cool cloth on her forehead and wiping her eyes.

  “I’m Naomi. Carl and I looked a lot alike. I should have warned you.”

  “Julia. Not much of a hostess though. I thought I had more self-control.”

  “I don’t need a welcome,” Naomi said. “I just wanted to meet you, to see what Carl saw and to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Julia said. “I don’t think so. Carl got killed because of me. I’ll never forgive myself for that, and you shouldn’t ever forgive me either.”

  “Stop that,” Naomi said. “Carl was a free man. He made his own choices. He wasn’t so easy to know. You gave him a kind of freedom he had never known before. He felt loved, Julia, if only for a little while. I hate that he died. I hate that he died looking for you. But I know my brother. You were th
e best thing that ever happened to him, even it took him too damned long to figure that out.”

  “I don’t go there,” Julia said. “I can’t.”

  “It’s okay,” Naomi said. “We’re there with you—me and Dr. Levin and Yvonne. Yvonne never knew Carl, but she’s still part of this strange crazy bunch. You don’t know her yet. You will. Her son Terrance was the third guy, the other guy who died with Carl. Let’s get you on your feet. Yvonne’s on the porch. She wants to meet you, and she also needs the benefit of your skill and expertise right now. She’s got a cut leg.”

  Julia stood and they walked together onto the porch, where Yvonne was sitting.

  “Yvonne, this is Dr. Richmond. Dr. Richmond, Yvonne Evans-Smith of Providence, Rhode Island, once of Saint John’s River, Liberia, the mother of Terrance Evans-Smith, who came with Carl and Dr. Levin and was their friend and their guide.”

  “Dr. Richmond. It is good to know you at last. Thank you for your service,” Yvonne said.

  “What is everyone thanking me for?” Julia said. “I’m the cause of all this kerfluffle. Now let’s get a look at that leg.”

  Jonathan knelt down and held Yvonne’s right leg and calf in the light for Julia to look at. Julia could see laceration in the calf and how it had become infected.

  “Decent size lac,” Levin said. “Too late to sew it though. It will have to heal up on its own. It’ll leave a scar, but she’s got a little cellulitis. Nothing that a little Keflex can’t fix. Got any antibiotics in this place?”

  “Not much Keflex in Liberia,” Julia said, as she looked at Yvonne’s leg and shook her head.

  “Got Betadine, though,” Jonathan said.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jonathan Crossman. Grand Bassa County, Liberia. August 2003–May 2007

  JONATHAN HAD NOT INTENDED TO STAY. HE CALLED PEOPLE WHO KNEW PEOPLE IN CALABAR, Lagos, Tripoli, Joberg, London, Paris, and Washington. The situation was fluid. No promises could be made. Best to lay low and play your cards close to your vest. Keep your assets close at hand. Keep that woman safe. Talk in a few days.

  He took a suitcase out of the truck and took over one of the examination rooms. They brought in a cot from one of the overnight rooms for him. Primitive but adequate. During the day the desk in the exam room had dim but adequate light. Jonathan had a cable he could hang off the truck battery and solar recharger for the satellite phone, so he was ready for anything. They didn’t know who he was at the clinic, so they left him alone. The clinic was safe for him because it was so far off the beaten path. For a few days. Until something jelled. Just a few days. Perhaps a week.

  All day long, they brought in children who needed shots, those who were dying, and young girls with big bellies.

  Julia sat with each one. A complete waste of time. The fit will survive. The others will die anyway. We make a load of babies to replace those that die, and we get a few good ones. Not an efficient process, perhaps, but an effective one.

  One morning Jonathan began to yell into the satellite phone. The clinic was a quiet place, and its walls shook when Jonathan yelled. MODEL had hit The Club. They were saying no survivors. Jonathan yelled louder. An American who was there got pulled out alive, but none of his boys made it. One of those three men looking for Julia. But the hell with that. His boys had taken an incredible hit. MODEL brought up a big gun and blew the place to smithereens. They’d cut Jonathan’s legs off at the knees and his arms off at the chest. The boys at The Club were his leverage. He was going to make a deal, pass them to someone else and use the girl doctor as protection while he was crossing borders. Now he was stuck, abandoned, and alone. MODEL was now in Bong County. South, north, and east. LURD was to their west. No tunnel out. Jonathan was fucked.

  Julia heard Jonathan yelling. Inside the shouting voice were words distorted by fast talking, walls, and the closed door. Words that could be assembled into phrases.

  “Only a white man?” Jonathan said. “Who cares about a goddamn white man? No other survivors? A howitzer? How the hell did they get a goddamn howitzer up here and into position? The damn building fell in on them in the middle of the night? What did they think they were hitting? The Pentagon? Everyone else is gone.”

  Julia waited. She waited for Jonathan to say that they had another American, and why the hell did only a couple of Americans survive. But Jonathan said nothing more. A white man. The only survivor. They had come looking for her. Bill Levin? Impossible. But nothing else. No one else. Carl had come for her. Carl was there for an instant. Now there was nothing where Carl had just been.

  Julia turned her face to the wall. She was still for a few moments. Then she turned back and walked into an examination room to see her next patient. She saw patients the rest of the afternoon. Slowly. One after the next. That’s what they teach you in doctor school. You put yourself and your emotions aside.

  Jonathan came to the door an hour later and saw Julia weighing a baby on the vegetable scale. She knew. No need to rub it in. The men who were looking for her had died. Maybe the white guy was in that group, maybe not. He had been taken back to Buchanan and was about to be interrogated. They were done here now.

  Now Jonathan needed real cover.

  He changed out of his khakis. They had to search, but they found scrubs that fit him. He could sit in scrubs and still work the phone. The phone rang for a few days, and then it stopped ringing.

  Jonathan watched Julia from his chair behind the desk in what used to be an exam room as she moved from place to place in the clinic.

  Three days later, Jonathan got the last two suitcases out of the truck.

  Those kids would come in, their heads flopping on their short necks as if attached to their bodies by string. Julia looked at them all. She’d praise the mothers for bringing their kid to clinic, even when she knew and the mothers knew that the child was dying. All Julia could hope for was that this mother might wait before having the next child, and when that next child arrived, perhaps the mother would come to clinic when the child became sick and before its death was a certainty. Sometimes the people from the bush brought in men or girls with rabies, their eyes wild and disorganized and their limbs stiffening up.

  Sometimes Jonathan would go with Julia and a PA or a community health worker when they walked out to a village, to an old woman or an old man near death with a fever who was too weak to travel. There was usually nothing Julia could do. They rarely had morphine, so she would cover the woman or the man with a blanket so she or he didn’t feel cold, and then she would wipe the person’s forehead with a cool cloth as she or he died, hot and cool at once.

  At first all Jonathan did was watch Julia as she moved about the clinic, walking stiffly from room to room, from patient to patient. He sat in scrubs at the desk in the main clinic room as though he were in charge, while he waited for a white pickup, its bed filled with armed men, that he believed was coming for him. When it came he knew his life would end. He was ready. If you live by the sword, you perish by the sword. There was nothing grand or romantic about this life. You do the best you can with what you have. Jonathan had done pretty damn well, given where he had started and what he had started with. He wondered sometimes whether he’d die in the village or whether they’d take him out into the bush to kill him, but he didn’t dwell on it. You pays your money, you takes your chances. No one in the clinic actually paid him any attention. Everyone else had a purpose and a job to do or a sickness that needed healing. It is hard to be in charge when there is nothing to be in charge of.

  But no pick-up came. MODEL thought he had died at the club.

  Then, bored as the days progressed, Jonathan began to help. It was silly and a waste of his time, but there was nothing else for him to do and nowhere else for him to go. He could keep his head down and live. Or he could raise his head up and have it cut off. Overall, living was a better choice than dying. It was different, thinking about living. Jonathan had always thought death was just around the corner and his job was to stay one step ah
ead of it, doing whatever he needed to survive. You think differently when there is no one trying to kill you. Your brain slows down a little. You see things. You hear things. You have ideas.

  Jonathan learned to weigh babies. He learned to draw the shots. He learned how to take a temperature and blood pressure for the old people.

  Then he learned what to look for when the children with sick mouth opened their mouths and pushed out their tongues, when the tonsils were cherry red and covered with white-green pus. He learned how to feel for lymph nodes under the necks of the seven-year-olds, and eventually he even learned how to give the children their shots. He learned how to distract the kids by looking to his left while his hands were moving to his right; by touching a shoulder when he was aiming for a thigh, and or by moving so fast with a needle that the kid didn’t see or feel the needle until after it was pulled out and the shot was done.

  Julia ignored Jonathan at first. He was a burden, an unneeded distraction, a liability. He might attract attention to them, and attention meant blood and death. He knew all Julia wanted was for him to move on into the bush toward one border or another and take his guns with him.

  They slept in different exam rooms, and they cooked what the country people brought them—cassava and bush meat, bananas, mangoes, pineapple, and dried fish from a river that was half a day’s walk. They cooked in the little cooking and laundry shack that had been built behind the clinic on the edge of the hill nearer to the village. Julia made a garden next to the cooking shack and grew maize, beans, tomatoes, peppers, and squash.

  Julia rarely spoke. She looked away when Jonathan came into the room.

  One day, a seventeen-year-old mother brought in one more baby nearly dead of malaria, its head and arms limp, its eyes dull and yellow, its nostrils moving just a little as it grunted to breathe—the last patient of the day, to be looked at in the quick red light of the evening that angled through the windows as the sun set. Julia told the mother to take the baby home, and she even gave the mother a little medicine, though she knew and Jonathan knew and the mother knew that the medicine wouldn’t work. Julia told the mother that she must wait for a year before having the next baby, and she told the mother to bring a baby to clinic the moment it got sick, hoping, probably vainly, that the next baby would be one she could save.