Thirty Girls

by Minot, Susan

  She felt she was floating. The music added to the pleasant feeling of disturbance. Then, as if sensing something in the shadows, she felt a fear. Harry was not the right person for this feeling.

  She stared out the window, spellbound. The truck shifted into low gear, revving up another hill toward the white sky.

  She must prepare herself. There would be an end and pain coming. Everyone always said that: Prepare yourself. They also said, Protect yourself. How one protected oneself she hadn’t a clue.

  She thought of seeing Harry standing on the lawn outside his parents’ house, legs apart with his pants rolled up, arms crossed, looking intently at the sky. She felt the hit of him and at the same minute saw the end. They had hardly started.

  Maybe she was wrong, maybe it would be okay. Something might happen about which she had no idea, something good. It was possible. The music stopped when the tape clicked off, and it was quiet. One could hope.

  They arrived in Lira at dusk. Flower beds filled the circle of a small rotary at the bottom of Main Street. They pulled over and asked a man wrapped in a blanket if he could tell them where Chain Market was.

  He stared with wonder at the passengers inside. Just there, he said, pointing vaguely up the road, possibly at a blue building. Main Street sloped up a hill between low buildings with dark trees encroaching at the end. They drove up and turned onto an unpaved alley alongside the blue building. In back was a long concrete porch where a group of people sat together, making one dark shape in the dusk.

  This is it, Jane said.

  A woman’s silhouette detached itself and came forward down the concrete steps. She wore a long dress and had loose curls to her shoulders. She stood waiting as everyone unpiled from the truck.

  Jane approached the woman who held out her hands. So you have come, the woman said. She said it as if she had not been sure.

  Jane grasped her hands.

  We have been waiting for you, the woman said.

  I hope not too long, Jane said.

  No. Just five hours. She said this with no irony whatsoever.

  A few months earlier Jane had gone to a dinner party in New York. She easily might not have gone. She was in and out of the city. In fact, she tried to be out of town as much as possible, en route somewhere. She preferred not to be in the familiar life.

  The dinner was in a downtown loft of a couple she knew, a journalist and a filmmaker. Large windows looked out on the cold autumn night where steam rose from grates in the street. Inside the candlelight pooled in the glasses of red wine. The dinner was being given for a woman from Uganda. Her name was Grace Dollo. Her trip had been sponsored by a human rights organization, some members of which also were sitting at the table. The next night she was being honored at their annual fund-raising benefit. She’d come to advertise her cause. Grace Dollo was in her early forties. She had a handsome face with deep dimples. She wore a brown and yellow flowered sundress reaching to her ankles and looked more relaxed than everyone else there.

  At the end of the dinner everyone’s attention turned to the woman. Forks were put down. People sat back in their chairs. Some looked at her. Others stared into their laps, perhaps finding it hard to face her as they heard the story she told.

  Grace spoke with a calm self-possession, not trying to convince these strangers of anything, but instructive and bright, telling them in a matter-of-fact tone about children being abducted from their boarding school in the north of Uganda. Her daughter was one of these children. Jane was mesmerized. There was a silence when Grace finished.

  Finally someone said, Do we know about this?

  Grace Dollo regarded the person with a blank face, unable to answer the question. The thought took hold of Jane: Something must done about this, maybe I can do something.

  That night as she walked home she had moved on from Maybe I can do something to I will do something. She pictured the girls being led away from their dormitory in the night and imagined the thirty girls the nun was forced to leave behind.… The image did not leave her. She crosssed Canal to the empty region of lower Sixth Avenue, walking up to the busier stretch in the West Village where people filled the sidewalks in Saturday night clusters. Grace’s story stayed before her like a great bonfire making small shadows of everything, including her small troubles.

  It had been a long time since she had been penetrated by something like this. I will do something, she told herself, I will help. She could feel the wine she’d drunk, both thickening her mind and also focusing her. She knew how easily these resolutions slipped away. One made promises to oneself; then in the morning, off they slid to that place where good intentions went. She was determined not to let that happen and to hold onto this one, to someone else’s dilemma, not her old tiresome ones. The impulse registered deep within her and seemed to become solid. Her usual habit of undercutting a new thought—really, what difference does it make?—did not break it. I will, she told herself. I will.

  She walked home in a kind of hypnotic state, feeling more calm and directed than she had in a long time.

  I am so sorry you’ve been waiting, Jane said. It took longer than we thought. She followed Grace up the steps, turning back to the others to show a mortified face. That’s terrible you were waiting so long. Really I’m so sorry.

  Come meet the parents, Grace said.

  Yes.

  They are here.

  There were about ten women and one man. Jane shook each person’s hand. They offered her a crate and she sat. She saw Don’s figure wander off toward Main Street; he was either not interested or unsure if he was being invited. Lana, Pierre and Harry sat on the edge of the porch and listened.

  A silhouette said, First you are wondering if your daughter is alive or dead, then you worry, if she is alive, does she have enough food? Is she being beaten?

  It is hard to enjoy your food when your daughter is starving, said another voice.

  Imagine not seeing your daughter for months, another woman said. It causes sickness in you. I am the mother of Helen.

  My daughter is Agnes, said another. It was her birthday just now. Each year I would make the same cake. I made it this year, but she could not eat it.

  There was a murmur of understanding.

  Only last year, the woman beside her said, my Lily was unwrapping dolls under the Christmas tree.

  Now our children have children themselves, Agnes’s mother said. Rebel children.

  Louise is expecting, Grace said. Jane was surprised to hear this; she had not mentioned this in New York. I know that if she brings this child home I must not hate this child. This is hard for me.

  Jane and Lana exchanged a look of alarm.

  The man, sitting upright as a schoolboy, had gray spots at his temples. This is Pere Ben, Grace said. His daughter is Charlotte.

  The week before, I lost my mother, he said. Then I lost my daughter, and five months later I lost my job.

  He and Grace laughed.

  We made a trip to Sudan to find them, he said. Grace nodded, eyes closed. He would tell this story.

  Arrangements had been made for the parents to meet the rebels. A doctor who had treated Kony—for a urinary tract infection—organized the meeting and received payment, though he assured the parents he was not on the rebels’ side. He would have done such things for free, he said, but these matters took time …

  The only reason Kony agreed to the meeting, he said, was because St. Mary’s had gotten the attention of the world and Kony might defend himself and say, You see? We are not the monsters they say we are.

  Two of the sisters, Giulia and Rosario, went in the group with Pere Ben and Grace. They flew by airplane to the border of Sudan. The first time, they waited there, but the rebels did not come. Another time later, they made the trip again, and this time the rebels arrived to meet them.

  Jane was struck once more by how mildly people accepted when plans were thwarted.

  The parents were brought to a deserted compound. See? the rebels said. No chi
ldren here. This camp is abandoned for a long time. Fires, however, were still smoking, and wash hung on lines and bushes.

  When the parents asked to see Kony they were told the next day. But Kony never met with anyone and he was not to meet with them now. The next day, returning to the same camp, they found it swarming with people. There were hundreds of children. They were sure the girls of St. Mary’s must be among them. When the parents came near, the children would run. Each parent was also trying to slip away from the guides. Pere Ben followed some children hurrying down a path.

  Jane was writing in her notebook, unable to see the words on the dark paper. Don reappeared and sat leaning against Lana. Pere Ben’s voice came out of the dark now, unattached to a person, the voice of the group.

  One girl about nine kept looking back at him. She stopped with a few other children and he squatted down to her. She put her hand over her eyes, the others turned their faces. A rebel came up and started kicking the children. Stop, Pere Ben said. Let me speak to these girls. The rebel glanced to the doctor who had arranged the meeting. He was saying to allow it. The rebel stepped back, angry.

  The children stood before me, Pere Ben said. Do you know the girls of Aboke? I asked. Each refused to talk. Their eyes said they had been told to remain quiet. If you tell me what we are asking you I promise we will take you away with us, I said. It was because I felt Charlotte was nearby that I said this. The children glanced to the commander standing with the sisters. Other rebels were around but not near. Another face showed some interest in me, a girl maybe eleven. I focused on these two. The youngest still would not speak, but she looked as if she might try. She stared at my shoes. The older one looked straight at me. The boldness in her face made me think she had not been in captivity for so long. Her eyes say, Are you sure? Before God, I tell her. I commit myself to freeing you if you tell me this thing.

  It was enough. This girl moved her lips, whispering. I could not hear. Then I hear it. Last night they came back, she says. They were here this morning, but now they have moved to Camp Fourteen. They have gone in a lorry. This was the first information we had found. I felt hope. Is this true? I said. Yes. Just this morning they were here.

  So Charlotte was nearby. Just this morning they were here.

  Then the girl’s expression changed. The doctor and the same rebel were just there. Pere Ben stood.

  What right have you to promise these things you cannot give? the rebel said.

  Pere Ben pulled a camera from his pocket and quickly took pictures, one of each girl. I have pictures of these girls, he said. So no harm must come to them.

  The rebel looked at him with cold eyes. Two more rebels came over and pushed the children away. It was time to go.

  Later they learned that after the visitors left, the girl was killed, hit with a piece of metal on the back of her neck.

  Yes, Grace said. This has happened.

  Swallows dipped under the eaves of the porch like black rags.

  Already it is more than a year, someone said. We will not soon forget that day.

  No, the voices mumbled together.

  The cicadas filled the night air. Jane felt everything drain from her and thought, I will never complain ever again. At the end of the porch was Harry’s white hat, the only thing showing in the dim light.

  They checked in to the Lira Hotel. There was a reception desk and a few feet away a number of tables set with place mats. They put their bags in their rooms then came back for dinner.

  Everyone was tired and barely looked at the menus, thinking of the stories they’d heard.

  That was heavy, Don said. I felt a little like I was butting in.

  Everyone nodded, united by the awareness that their usual concerns looked awfully trivial.

  It is amazing what people endure, Pierre said.

  They don’t have a choice, said Harry.

  They ate curried vegetables and the stew special. Across the dining room was a bar with stools where music suddenly started pounding. Lana pushed away at her plate. Did anyone want her eggplant? No one answered. No one ordered dessert. Harry and Jane said they were going to turn in.

  I think some of us need more drinks, Lana said, and stood. She squared her shoulders toward the pounding music. Don and Pierre stood and followed.

  Jane and Harry took the white gravel path of an interior courtyard. The music grew fainter, though the bass continued to thump the air as they turned a stucco corner into the shadow of door number 7. Jane inserted a rusty key.

  I can’t believe they were waiting for us for five hours. The people here are so much more—She felt for the light switch inside.

  Stop talking, he said.

  I was just—

  Hands gripped her shoulders, holding her arms down, steering her into the room where the light was striped and dim, coming through a lattice shade. He turned her around and lifted her onto a small table by the window. Her long dress was pulled up to her hips. Sometimes Harry seemed tall and other times smaller, maybe if he was beside a tall man, but now he seemed tall. He pulled her close, socking the air out of her. This is how I like you, he said so faintly she could barely hear.

  Then he said, more clearly, Tell me.

  Yes.

  Yes what?

  She didn’t answer.

  You like that? he said.

  Her breath was all irregular.

  Tell me, he said.

  No.

  Tell me.

  She smiled. No.

  The light from the window was sharpened on the floor into checkerboard squares. He held her draped over him and staggered her, collapsed on his shoulder. There were two single beds, each against the wall, with a narrow space in between. She felt her body all mixed up with his. His breathing sounded asleep, then he spoke.

  We don’t do that enough, he muttered.

  He said it as if they were a couple with a long history and not people who’d known each other less than two weeks. Then, at the edge of sleep, she wondered, because wonder never stopped even when gratified, if he’d meant the world in general and not specifically the two of them. She wouldn’t ask. Sometimes the answer could snap you in half.

  Entering a person’s private terrain was dangerous. You never knew where another person’s tender places were and chances are they were different from yours. You didn’t know the damage you might cause. Maybe the person didn’t even want to be explored. Most people she’d found wanted to be left alone.

  But tonight Jane was not feeling how apart she and Harry were.

  The throbbing music stopped and the room was extra quiet.

  She saw again the parents on the porch, and heard their soft voices under the roof. Each day your child was gone you must think you couldn’t bear it another then the next day comes, and you do.

  How far away were the rebels now? What children had been hurt that day or killed?

  She was aware of being in a place where others were so much worse off than she, and yet felt content lying against Harry. She would have liked to tell him of her happiness. The feeling rather astonished her. But happiness was hard to express. When happiness was over, she found plenty to say. When it was in you, you felt mute.

  Tomorrow they were going to St. Mary’s. She thought how maybe Pierre could film Grace in the car on the way. She didn’t want to miss a thing.

  In the morning they drove back into town. There seemed to be a church every third building, some with steeples, some bunkerlike with signs on the front lawn. Jane bought some notebooks in a store selling coffee and ribbons. In a bank of sharp new bricks they cashed travelers’ checks. It took forty minutes, as strips of paper were carried lackadaisically from one desk to another, scribbled on, transferred to a ledger, brought back to the same desk, then sent off to another quarter. In Jane’s wallet she noticed she had bills from five different currencies.

  When they came out the truck was dead. Lana and Don were nowhere in sight. Some people standing by helped Harry and Pierre push the truck down the slop
e while Jane steered, but they couldn’t get the engine to turn over. They were shown a repair shop off a side street and conveniently glided to it without a sound.

  We Fix It Garage was a small concrete building painted yellow with a green stripe around it beside a wall-less garage with a corrugated tin roof. Parts of automobiles lay scattered about in the weeds, and in front sat a man in a wooden wheelchair beside another man in a chair. They watched the truck slide in. The man in the wheelchair lifted his chin in greeting, and sat forward from the tasseled cushion behind him. He had a wide chest in a crimson T-shirt and strong arms.

  Harry got out. Jambo, Bwana, he said. He stood with his hands in his pockets. Through the windshield Jane watched them talk.

  Karibu, Kenya, said the man in the wheelchair. I know Kenya. My aunt, she was living in Kenya.

  No more? Harry said.

  No, she is no more.

  They continued chatting, nodding, pausing. Eventually Harry pointed to the truck and the three of them looked at the truck for a while. Then the man in the wheelchair rolled toward the Toyota and, bending to look underneath, tipped his wheelchair nearly on its side, bracing himself with one of his strong arms. Neil! he shouted.

  An orange wool hat appeared behind a barrel in the garage and a young man emerged pulling the hat over his ears. He listened to his orders, then ducked out of sight. The man wheeled over to a small yellow vehicle with no doors and no hood, and hoisted himself with a jerk out of the wheelchair into the passenger seat. He started the yellow car and drove it to the truck. Jane got out as the young man appeared with jumper cables.

  She walked back up the road to where she’d seen a woman selling fruit. A few pyramids of onions and bumpy breadfruit lay on a cloth in front of the woman, who was looking down, showing the top of a wide-brimmed straw hat. Jane spotted a basket of lemons. Upon closer examination she saw they were oranges. Yellow oranges.

  How much? she said.

  The brim of the hat tipped up and the woman faced her. It was not a woman, but a young girl. Where the girl’s mouth should have been was a hole with a thick rim of scar around it. Jane kept her gaze on the face, trying to hide her shock. The girl held up four fingers.