The Garden of Burning Sand

by Corban Addison

  “I barely know her. You’re the one with the relationship.”

  For the first time that morning Zoe smiled. “Then come with me to Manhattan.”

  The Acela Express train from Washington to New York was a pale shadow of its European cousins, but Zoe preferred it to flying. After stops in Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey, the train deposited them at Penn Station just before one in the afternoon. Zoe and Trevor navigated the crowded underground corridors and emerged on Seventh Avenue not far from the taxi stand. They climbed into a cab, and Zoe gave the driver the address.

  Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled to the curb outside the Park Avenue headquarters of the Catherine Sorenson Foundation. Zoe introduced herself to the doorman, who ushered them to the bank of elevators. They got off on the tenth floor and entered the foundation’s elegant wood-and-glass reception area. The receptionist greeted them by name and escorted them down a hallway lined with photographs to the office of the Executive Director.

  Monica Kingsley rounded her desk and shook their hands affectionately. At just under sixty years of age, she had the look of New York high society without the affectation. “It’s so good to see you again,” she said, gesturing toward a pair of leather chairs opposite her desk.

  “Thanks for working us in on short notice,” Zoe replied, taking a seat.

  “I always have time for you,” Monica said.

  Zoe traded a glance with Trevor. “We need your help. It’s a bit unusual.” She summarized Kuyeya’s story and outlined her prognosis. “There are a number of charities in Lusaka that are assisting her, but they don’t have funding for something like this. I—we—were hoping the foundation could cover the cost of her treatment.”

  Trevor chimed in: “I would have put the money up myself if I still had my trust.”

  “Of course,” Monica replied. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you. If Catherine were sitting in this seat, she would call the bank and they would wire the funds. I don’t have that power. I have to take it to the board. I’ll do my best to make the case, but I don’t know how they’ll vote.”

  “How long will that take?” Zoe asked, struggling to suppress her discouragement.

  “I’ll need a couple of days to call a meeting.” Monica looked quizzical. “Can’t you talk to your father? Surely he would help.”

  Zoe listened to the hum of traffic far below. She couldn’t believe how spectacularly her plans had backfired. In challenging her father, she had not only succeeded in damaging their relationship, likely beyond repair, but also—and far worse—she had endangered Kuyeya’s life.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Trevor said suddenly. “He might listen to me.”

  She regarded him in surprise. “He’ll think you’re taking sides.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’d rather be with you anyway.”

  She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Please talk to the board,” she said to Monica. “We don’t have much time.”

  Monica nodded. “When are you leaving the country?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll send you an email as soon as I have an answer.”

  “Thank you,” Zoe said, standing up.

  “Wait,” Monica said. “I have something for you.” She reached into a drawer and extracted a yellowed envelope. “This doesn’t seem like the right time, but I doubt I’ll see you again before your birthday. It’s from your mother.”

  At the mention of Catherine, Zoe’s pulse quickened. “I don’t understand.”

  Trevor touched her shoulder. “It’s all right. I got one, too.”

  Zoe gave him a baffled look.

  “It’s a letter,” Monica explained. “She left it with her will.”

  Zoe’s spine tingled when she took the envelope. The sight of her name traced out by her mother’s flowing penmanship triggered a cascade of emotions—astonishment, grief, nostalgia, and love. She fingered the flap. “Should I open it now?”

  “I’d save it for a quiet moment,” Monica said.

  Zoe shook her hand and walked with Trevor to the elevator.

  “Is Dad still in D.C.?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “He’s on the Vineyard. He needed to get away.”

  She took a sharp breath, wondering at the irony. “I’m coming with you.”

  Her brother grimaced. “It could get ugly.”

  “I don’t care. I need to be there.”

  Chapter 32

  Martha’s Vineyard

  May, 2012

  The Gulfstream III executive jet touched down on Martha’s Vineyard a few minutes before six in the evening. The plane was the oldest in the triumvirate that made up Jack Fleming’s fleet. The “Three,” as they called it, was Sylvia’s favorite, but Trevor had no difficulty requisitioning it from Westchester County Airport for the short flight to the Vineyard.

  They rented a car at the airport and drove east through the plantations and pine groves of the island, reaching Edgartown just as the sun fell behind the trees. Zoe inhaled the moist air rolling in through the open window and allowed the tranquility of the village to soothe her nerves. As pristine as a museum piece, Edgartown was both the haven of her childhood and the scene of her worst memory. She cherished the place and resented it at the same time.

  Trevor made a series of turns and took them toward Eel Pond. Zoe saw the gray-blue sea through a break in the trees. Then the water became the horizon, presided over by blushing clouds. She saw the house next—the gabled roofline, the gray clapboard siding and white casement shutters. Two members of the Senator’s security team greeted them at the gate. The men recognized Trevor and admitted them without delay.

  They drove up the winding drive and parked behind Sylvia’s Porsche and the Senator’s Mercedes. Zoe took a breath, wishing she could still her trembling hands.

  “Why don’t you go for a walk?” Trevor said, sensing her mood. “Let me talk to him.”

  “No. I’m not going to run from this.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He led the way to the porch, where a third security officer was sitting in a lounge chair.

  “The door’s unlocked,” the man said, making no move to get up.

  They entered the foyer together. Built just after the turn of the century, the house was a throwback to a simpler architectural era—low ceilings, square rooms, and wide-plank floors minimally polished. Over the years, Sylvia had begged Jack to remodel it, but Jack had resisted, prompting her—out of his hearing—to nickname the property “the shrine of St. Catherine.”

  Zoe inhaled the familiar scent of lavender and spice. She heard voices coming from the kitchen. A fluffy white Bichon Frisé lapdog skittered up to them and sniffed her toes.

  “Maria, is that you?” her father called out when Trevor pulled the door closed.

  “It’s me, Dad,” Trevor announced, glancing furtively at Zoe.

  Zoe braced herself at the sound of her father’s footsteps. When he reached the foyer, he stopped and blinked, staring at her. Zoe looked back at him, her heart pounding like a charging horse. From the floridness in his cheeks, she could see that he had been drinking.

  “Hey, Dad,” Trevor said, trying to affect nonchalance.

  “A family reunion,” the Senator said ambivalently.

  “Who is it, Jack?” Sylvia called. Seconds later, she appeared beside her husband and stopped cold. She scooped up the dog and stared at Zoe without a word.

  “We’re here to talk,” Trevor said. “There are some things I need to understand.”

  “Let’s talk then,” the Senator replied, leading the way to the living room.

  Zoe walked to the bay windows and looked out at the scene that lived in so many of her memories—the sugar maple that shaded the servant’s cottage, the path through pines and thistles that led to the marsh at the edge of their land, the sandy beach where she had learned to swim, and, beyond, the Atlantic, restless beneath a darkening sky. After a moment, she went to the couch and sat beside Trevor. Her f
ather took a seat in his favorite leather chair, and Sylvia remained standing, petting the Bichon Frisé.

  “What do want me to tell you?” the Senator began.

  “Clay Randall,” Trevor said. “I want to know why you didn’t do anything about it.”

  Jack gave his son a deliberate look. “It wasn’t clear what happened.”

  Trevor squinted in disbelief. “What are you talking about? Rape is a simple concept.”

  “Oh, Trevor, nothing is simple,” Sylvia interjected. “They had a relationship. They were infatuated with one another. I was there; I saw it with my own eyes. I was certain they were having sex. That’s what teenagers do. I did it, you did it, I’m sure. When the lines aren’t clear, things can happen.”

  Trevor regarded her indignantly. “You were not there. You didn’t see what he did to her.”

  “Trevor,” the Senator cut in. “Look at me, son. I never meant to hurt your sister. You’re right—we weren’t there. We didn’t see it. The only thing I knew for sure was that her heart was broken. Harry Randall is my best friend. I wasn’t about to accuse his son of rape unless I was absolutely certain of it.”

  Despite her best efforts, Zoe began to cry. Suddenly, she was seventeen again, wounded, confused, and incapable of comprehending why her father had chosen not to believe her.

  Trevor squeezed her hand. “Zoe’s sitting right here, Dad. Look her in the eye and tell her she made it up. If you can’t do that, then the last twelve years of your life are a lie.”

  The Senator stood abruptly. “I can’t believe it. I’ve given you both privileges I never dreamed of when I was a kid, and this is what I get in return?” He faced Zoe. “Do you know how many calls I’ve gotten since the hearing? My party, my campaign, no one knows what to do with the footage on TV. I have to tell them something, but what I am supposed to say? That my daughter opposed me in my own committee because of something that happened a decade ago?”

  “Stop it,” Zoe said, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t want this. I don’t care about the White House. I hate politics. I hate what they’ve done to us. I never asked you to punish Clay. All I wanted was for you to believe me, to say you were sorry and that you’d do whatever it took to make it right. But no, you couldn’t do that. You had too much to lose.”

  She took a breath and tried to calm down. “The irony is I’m not even sure you really care about politics.” Seeing her father stiffen, she forged ahead. “Tell me I’m not right. You were spinning after Mom died. You needed a distraction, and Sylvia gave you a mountain to climb. You convinced yourself it was your idea because you needed to escape the guilt.”

  “What guilt?” the Senator asked in a near whisper.

  “That you weren’t there to save her.”

  “That’s absurd,” he said unconvincingly.

  “Look, I don’t care what you tell people. Lie to them if it makes you feel better. I have no intention of speaking about this ever again. I’m here for one reason. There’s a girl in Zambia who has a medical condition that could kill her. The doctors in Lusaka can’t perform the surgery. The nearest hospital that can do it is in Pretoria, and it’s going to cost a hundred thousand dollars. I asked Atticus, and he won’t give it to me.” She leaned forward. “So here’s your chance at redemption. You can change what happens to this girl. But the clock is ticking.”

  Silence enveloped them when Zoe concluded. She heard the calls of gulls playing in the wind and the distant sound of the surf. To her surprise, it was Sylvia who spoke first.

  “Jack, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  The Senator nodded and joined her in the hallway. Instantly, Zoe was struck by déjà vu. I’ve been here before. Is it possible it could happen again? When her father reentered the living room, she noticed a change in his countenance. In confronting the subject of Catherine’s death, he had seemed human, even vulnerable. Now the steel of the candidate had returned.

  “We can help each other,” the Senator said. “I’ll give you the money, but I need you to close Pandora’s box. I’ll make a brief statement to the press that you will attend with Trevor and Sylvia. I’ll talk about our family’s commitment to philanthropy, and you’ll show the world that you respect me and support my candidacy.”

  His words pierced Zoe like a knife in the back. “I can’t believe you want me to bargain with you.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing, Dad. After all these years, you still can’t say it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Say what?”

  Zoe knew what decision she had to make, but still she hesitated. In the end, her legs were stronger than her heart. “You can come, or you can give me the keys,” she said to Trevor.

  “I’m coming,” he replied, following her toward the door.

  “You’re really going to walk away from this?” her father called after her.

  Zoe turned and met his eyes. “No, Dad. I walked away a long time ago.”

  Trevor drove her to the airport in a silence as deep as the dark Vineyard sky. Zoe looked out at the forest and felt something inside her break. A jumbled torrent of memories and fears cascaded through her mind—the day her father won the Senate race and she understood why he had not defended her; Kuyeya playing at St. Francis, a misstep away from paralysis; Amos lying in a pool of blood; Clay Randall watching her cry; Flexon Mubita meeting with Patricia Nyambo; cameras flashing in the Senate chamber; the pain in her father’s eyes; the black mamba slithering across the floor; Joseph’s HIV. She leaned her head against the window, overwhelmed by it all.

  “Are you okay?” Trevor said.

  She took a moment to answer him. “I’m not sure.”

  “What are you going to do about the girl?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”

  He stared at her in the darkness. “I’m sorry, Zoe. For everything. If I could change it …”

  “I know, Trev,” she said, touching his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

  When he focused on the road again, she rolled down the window and leaned into the slipstream, allowing the island air to envelop her, to whip through her hair and fill her lungs as she had when she was a girl. She could see the brightest stars twinkling through the sea haze. Their names came to her like a fragment from a long-forgotten lesson: Castor, Pollux, Capella, Regulus. She smiled at them in an easy way and felt her confidence beginning to return.

  In the airport parking lot, she had an idea. She took out her iPhone and called a number in South Africa. She listened as the phone rang and rang, waiting until a male voice delivered a sleepy greeting in Afrikaans.

  “Jan,” she said, “it’s Zoe Fleming.”

  “Zoe?” He sounded bewildered. “It’s one thirty in the morning.”

  “I’m in the United States. Your daughter needs help.”

  “My daughter?”

  “Kuyeya,” she said impatiently. “Do you know anyone at Pretoria Wellness Hospital?”

  “No,” he replied, still fuzzy. “Why?”

  She outlined the situation and made her request. He hesitated, and she heard only static on the line. Come on, Jan, she thought. Be a man.

  Eventually, he spoke. “I’ve heard of AAI. Dr. Chulu says it’s progressive?”

  “Life-threatening. She needs an operation right away.”

  “I know a medevac outfit in Johannesburg that does charity flights.”

  “That’s a good start, but we’re still well short. Do you have savings?”

  He hesitated. “Ninety thousand rand, but that’s not nearly enough.”

  “And your parents?”

  His reaction came swiftly. “They don’t know anything about this.”

  “What about a loan? You have friends. Somebody will help.”

  “What about you?” he countered. “You have connections, too.”

  His words fell like salt on her open wound. “What do you mean?”

  “Zoe Fleming, daughter of Jack.” He paused. “It seems both of us had secrets.”

&
nbsp; She gripped the phone. “This isn’t about me. It’s about your daughter’s life.”

  He sighed, sounding weary. “I’m not denying that. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Start with the medevac and your savings. I’ll work out the rest.”

  Her words seemed to embolden him. “When are you flying back?”

  “I’ll be in Johannesburg on Sunday morning.”

  “Good,” he said, speaking with sudden conviction. “With any luck, so will she.”

  Chapter 33

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  May, 2012

  Zoe spent the fifteen-hour flight from New York sleeping and scheming—making a list of influential friends and acquaintances and compiling numbers to call on the ground. Somehow, six miles in the air, her frame of reference had changed. It no longer mattered that Atticus Spelling had turned her down, that the decision of the foundation board was a crapshoot, or that her father had asked her to put on a show for the media in exchange for Kuyeya’s life. She would find a way to pay for the surgery. She couldn’t afford to fail.

  When the plane parked at the gate, she checked her iPhone for email, hoping for a missive from Monica Kingsley. Instead, she found a handful of queries from reporters, which she deleted. She collected her bags and followed the crowd to customs and immigration. Thirty minutes later, she entered the cavernous terminal and saw Jan Kruger waiting for her.

  He surprised her with a hug. “I just got a call from the orthopedic surgeon. She goes into theater in two hours.”

  “You did it,” she replied. “You came through.”

  He showed her the way to the parking garage and a black Audi coupé. “I’ve been thinking, assuming all goes well, I’d like to spend some time with her.”

  “You’ll have to work at it. She’s never had a decent man in her life.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Bring her Johnny Cash. She’ll love you forever.”

  They left the garage and drove into a world alive with sunlight. Jan navigated the N12 to the Eastern Bypass and sped north to the N1, paying no attention to the speed limit. As they flew across the bronze hills of Gauteng, Jan surprised Zoe again. Beginning with the day he met Charity in a classroom in Livingstone, he told Zoe the story of the girl she was before he broke her heart, before Frederick Nyambo and Lusaka and prostitution and AIDS. Listening to him, Zoe knew that he had loved her and that in some ways he still did.