In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills

by Jennifer Haupt

  Rachel kneels and tries adult logic, a weak first move with a seven-year-old. “You don’t want be tired for the party later, right?” Rose sets her jaw tighter. And then, there’s good old-fashioned bribery: “We’ll make more decorations. Or, cookies! How about that?”

  Robert and Thomas appear from the kitchen, handsome young men in blue blazers and pressed chinos, agreeing heartily that Rachel’s plan sounds a lot more fun than church. They’ll make more decorations for the tree, but no opening presents until later.

  “Rose, honey,” Lillian intervenes before things get too carried away and someone winds up in tears, “can you pick a few begonias that match my dress? And you gentlemen go find Zeke and wait for us by the Jeep, please.”

  When Rose is out of earshot, Lillian turns to Tucker, her other stubborn child. “It would be nice if we all attended church today. Rose can take a nap before we have lunch and open presents.”

  Tucker frowns. “I don’t think church is a good idea.”

  “For her or you?” Lillian says. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” She hasn’t asked in years past. Nadine says it makes her stronger going to the site of the massacre, but not Tucker. It only reminds him of all he can’t fix in the world. She kisses his furrowed brow. “We’re still strong, a strong family. I want folks to see that the fire hasn’t changed that. Nothing anyone does can change that.”

  “Yeah…” Tucker draws in a breath and nods, as if convincing himself. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Now, you’ll take Rose and Rachel in your Jeep after you change into fresh clothes. Nadine and I will walk into town with the other children.”

  “Nadine’s going?” Rachel asks, and then adds, “She should come with us in the Jeep.”

  Lillian starts to object, and then instead says, “You’re right, good thinking. I’ll see you there.”

  RACHEL LOOKS OUT THE WINDOW as the Jeep stops in a grassy meadow dotted with groups of people wrapped up in their Christmas best. It’s surreal: How can this be the same place where thousands of people were massacred? The pink locket is a slight, constant weight against her thigh, nestled in the pocket of her skirt. She can’t imagine what her father photographed here, doesn’t even want to try. And Nadine, laughing with Rose in the backseat. Is she pretending not to remember for Rose’s sake or has she truly forgotten, if only for a few hours, the atrocities that happened here? Across the field there’s a red brick building with a tile roof, a huge gold wooden cross looming above. The house of God. Miracles. Maybe, as Lillian says, everyone here is summoning what’s left of their faith, some praying and some only hoping that mankind’s capacity for love is greater than the history of their deeds.

  “Do me a favor and take it easy,” Tucker says, opening Rose’s door.

  “Yes, yes of course.” She pushes past him impatiently and runs off toward the church, Nadine close behind.

  Rachel walks briskly after them, turns to say something to Tucker but he’s not there. He’s still standing beside the Jeep, watching her, his hand on the open passenger door as if adhered there by something stronger than he is. “People are heading inside,” she says, running back to take his hand. She gently pulls him away, and then follows his lead around the back of the church, away from the crowd. They walk along a stone path, stopping in front of a granite plaque overgrown with purple and white wildflowers.

  Tucker runs his hand over the engraved block letters. “Eighty-seven names,” he says flatly. “These are the only bodies they could identify. An estimated two thousand people were murdered here over about a week. This memorial, this dilapidated shack, is all that’s left of their lives. There are shacks, schools and churches with plaques like this one all over the country.”

  Rachel tries the door, padlocked shut, her hand freezing as it hits her: “This is where you found them. Nadine and my father.” She walks around to the back and finds a small, barred window. A whiff of something harsh, like rotting meat, burns her nostrils.

  “Nearly seven years later and still…” Tucker shines a penlight inside the cracked pane of glass. “I don’t think the smell will ever completely fade.”

  Rachel reaches up for his hand and knocks the light away as she sees the wall of shelves lined with skulls. Below it, there’s a row of suitcases. “They thought they were leaving. They thought someone would save them. They thought…” She holds a hand to her stomach, vile liquid churning up into her throat. Her father was right here in this shack—was he hiding or in plain sight? Was he judiciously taking photos or simply clicking away?

  “No sane person would ever ask to witness what happened here,” Tucker says quietly, as if reading her mind or maybe her face. “And yet being a witness makes it impossible to turn away. At least, that’s my experience.”

  Rachel takes the flashlight and shines it on a shapeless, colorless mound in the center of the room. As her eyes adjust, forms and colors pop out: shirt collars, pant legs, belt buckles, the worn elastic bands of underwear. There’s a small bear missing an ear atop the pile. The light turns shaky. When she offered to replace Kingston’s missing eye, Rose gave her the strangest look and shook her head. It was as if she knew that a new eye wouldn’t change what the tattered lion had seen.

  “How can you stay, after all you’ve seen?” Rachel turns away from the window, doesn’t want to see anymore. She understands why her father had to leave.

  “It wasn’t an actual decision, not really. Being here…” Tucker says. “My parents had disowned me. Finishing my residency at UCLA was off the table. Truth is, I was kicked out. There was an ‘incident…’ ” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “I stole some bandages and meds for this homeless clinic where a friend of mine was working.”

  “Very Robin Hood of you.”

  “I was a kid trying to do the right thing, but I had no idea what that was. That’s why I came here. Stayed here.” Tucker looks at the ground, twists the brass ring on his finger. “I promised to do one truly good thing before I left. Still working on it.”

  Rachel grabs his arm. “How can you say that? You save lives.”

  “There’s so much suffering. Most days, I’m not even making a dent.”

  “I don’t think I could do it. Being so selfless.”

  “No, it’s not like that. After witnessing so much suffering and violence, I couldn’t go back to the States—for sure not California. Being here has become my reality. It’s who I am.”

  “When is it enough?”

  Tucker squints past her, into the dark, dusty tomb. “You’d better get going,” he says. “The service should be starting soon. I’ll stay here, try to summon some kind of prayer.”

  “I haven’t prayed since…” Rachel shakes her head. The last time was when she was a kid. Her mom insisted they attend services for the high holidays every year to ask for absolution for their sins and then start fresh again on Rosh Hashanah. She grabs Tucker’s hand and takes a few steps toward the church. Maybe, she thinks, it’s more important than ever to believe in miracles—even if only for one day. “I know it’s corny, but I want to see Christmas through the eyes of the children. Love, faith, miracles. All of it.”

  Tucker doles out a weary smile, but he doesn’t budge. Rachel tugs harder. “C’mon. This will still be here tomorrow.”

  TUCKER CLICKS OFF THE FLASHLIGHT and places it back on the windowsill. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Rachel he’s given up on miracles and the jury is still out on faith and love. As they enter the dimly lit sanctuary, she points at the large, blue and gold stained-glass windows at the front as evidence that something beautiful and pristine remains in this room. All he sees are shards of light cast toward the altar, like dozens of tiny swords. His eyes dart around the room, trying to find somewhere blank and plain to land, and settle on his shoes. She doesn’t notice the spackled ceiling where there were bullet holes, doesn’t know these are brand new pews because the old originals were chopped up to burn along with the bodies. She doesn’t see the decapitated statuettes of
the Virgin Mary and Jesus that used to hang on the walls. Maybe some of the Hutus felt a sliver of shame. It’s Christmas so he gives them the benefit of the doubt; maybe they didn’t want any celestial witnesses to the evil they were carrying out in God’s name.

  Rose waves Tucker over to sit near her and her friends in the first row. He give her a thumbs-up, actually feels something lighten in his chest. She’s no longer flushed; the new HIV cocktail from London is kicking in. The miracle of science. That he can believe in.

  The church choir limbers up with a Kinyarwanda hymn, surprisingly cheerful, accompanied by an old man plucking the thin metal tines of a kalimba and a young woman playing a flute. Tucker’s spirits rise as the children and adults alike sway in the pews. Sitting between Rachel and Rose, he wants to be swept away, wants to find evidence that God still lives in this place or at least is making a guest appearance today. A hush falls over the sanctuary as the reverend, a heavy man dressed in a long purple robe, seems to float across the stage despite his girth. He kicks off the service with a silent prayer in praise of a loving God. A generous God. Forgiving.

  It’s been a long time since Tucker has said a prayer, but he closes his eyes and holds Rose’s small hand. She looks good today. Thanks, Man. If you can watch over her, give her some extra time… He starts to open his eyes—it’s the best he can do—but then Rachel’s hand brushes his knee. One more request. Make her stay. The thought is like a flash of bright light and he blinks open his eyes. For years, he has been so busy trying to save lives, fix the problems of people he loves, prove to himself that he’s a healer, not just an MD. It never occurred to him, not until now, that he might need someone to help him heal. Solange, forgive me. Forgive me.

  He lets out a shaky breath that unwinds a tight coil throughout his entire body. He looks down, brushing away the moisture from his cheek. Rachel’s palm is covering the clenched fist on his thigh. For a brief moment, he does believe in miracles.

  NADINE’S EYES FOLLOW A TWIST of smoke that curls up from a braided incense stick toward the stained-glass window and then dissipates into nothing. Her breath comes in a halting staccato rhythm; wispy fingers of myrrh and frankincense play upon her lungs. The fragrance of forgiveness, the reverend says as he begins his sermon.

  Forgiveness. That has been the theme of the Christmas service for the past three years, since people began coming back to this church, Hutus and Tutsis alike. No one speaks of the former priest, the one who christened her and Sylvia both, who is locked up in jail still awaiting trial. Three years ago, when this new reverend—neither Hutu nor Tutsi—came from Uganda, the walls of the church were painted dark brown to hide the stains and brand new pews were installed. One might even believe the murders never happened. All of the evidence is hidden out of sight in the shed around back.

  Nadine glances around, grinds the toe of her shoe into the floor. The reverend’s voice is loud and fervent as he goes on about opening one’s heart to the possibilities of the New Year. It is always the same. Merely words. She looks directly at Chrissie, sitting toward the back of the room. He has been staring at the back of her head, she is certain, but now his eyes avert to the floor. Nadine turns her attention back to the altar again as the reverend’s voice careens up an octave. He’s excited, talking about the country’s first gacaca trials, which will take place next month, one right here in Mubaro, in the field between the church and the market square.

  “May we open our hearts to the sweetness of remembering a time long ago, before the hatred began. Before the killings. Let us say a prayer for peace. Amahoro.”

  Everyone bows to pray. Nadine fights the urge to turn around and smile at Chrissie. He returned Rachel’s passport. Surely, Felix wouldn’t approve. Maybe it’s true that her friend didn’t help his brother to set the fire. He might still be the boy who used to walk her home from school, a skinny boy who carried a stick that wasn’t large enough to harm anyone. He couldn’t really protect her from the boys who followed them, cackling like crows. Filthy cockroach. Dung beetle girl. They didn’t dare to call Felix’s little brother names, not with him right there with them. Felix was always right there. Had he been protecting his brother?

  She quickly glances over her shoulder, scratching a hard-to-reach spot where there could be an itch. Yes, Chrissie is still looking at her. He lifts his hand to his chin, a thumb tugging at the corner of a smile. Nadine nods. Yes, she wants to forgive her friend. She wants, not to forget the past, but to remember. Before.

  If only she can plant herself firmly in the place where Umama sang her to sleep as a young child. The place where she and Sylvia barely dared to breathe as they time-travelled through wormholes in space along with Meg and Charles Wallace, their trusty paperback as good as any tesseract or spaceship. The place where she and Chrissie had studied geography and it dawned on them that people sometimes left their homes, found new friends and created new families. Together, they made children’s plans: They would move to London or Paris, Cairo or New York, someplace far away and full of all sorts of people living together. She would be a singer, not like on the radio but on a big stage, telling stories to music. Chrissie would design tall, sleek buildings with elevators that could transport people, in the time it took to count to ten, up into the clouds.

  She bows her head and counts slowly, the incense filling her lungs. One… two… three… four… Amahoro.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  RACHEL STROLLS ACROSS THE FIELD TO-ward town, in no particular hurry to try and win her bet with Rose that she can make it to Kwizera on foot before Tucker’s Jeep gets there. It was the only way to convince the obviously tired child to accept a lift instead of walking with Lillian and the boys. The landscape is dotted with a rainbow of sun parasols, but there’s no sign of Lillian’s floppy straw hat, or Nadine for that matter. Naddie disappeared after the service and is probably back at Kwizera by now, making sure the presents are arranged just so, wrapped in batik cloth and ribbons with crisp bows, under the fig tree. Lillian will take charge of the kitchen, appointing Tucker and the older boys her sous-chefs while she prepares lunch. Nothing fancy, probably just sandwiches since the aunties will be over later for a potluck dinner, but it will still be festive. Zeke will set the dining room table, Rose by his side straightening napkins and filling water glasses. Everyone has their part in making sure that the celebration runs smoothly. It was nice of Lillian to ask her to be in charge of picking fresh flowers for the centerpiece.

  She stoops to pluck a bouquet of button-sized daisies to set at Rose’s place at the table, in between her and Nadine. Clumps of flowers cling to the patchy grass, soft drifts of snow on the ochre-red ground. A sadness unspools from her fingertips; there’s probably at least a foot of powder in the Catskills. She misses waking up early on Christmas morning, as excited as a kid, to look out the window, hoping for fresh snow to make footprints in and secretly searching for reindeer tracks. Her tongue tingles with the memory of the aromas of strong coffee and apple strudel sprinkled with cinnamon sugar wafting through the floorboards of Mick’s childhood room. At eight o’clock sharp the house fills with assorted shapes and sizes of O’Sheas who convene around the Christmas tree nestled in a bay window overlooking the Catskills, their plates piled high with eggs, bacon, and slabs of crusty confection.

  She has her place in Mick’s family, too. Everyone knows that the Barcalounger kitty-corner to the fireplace is reserved for her. She settles in with a mug of tea to watch the show. One by one, youngest to oldest, members of the O’Shea clan shake presents wrapped in red or gold paper that matches the tree ornaments, per Mother O’Shea’s instructions. Mick brings Rachel her gifts and makes a show of bowing. It’s a family joke: everyone always knew he would marry a princess, treat his wife like royalty. They all concur that Mother O’Shea raised her only son right. Rachel does not disagree. It would be petty to tell him that she feels like an outsider, not royalty. Just once, couldn’t he have offered to go with her to Jacksonville for Thanksgiving, her family holiday wi
th her mom and Aunt Carole?

  Rachel removes the elastic band from her hair to wrap it around the wispy daisy stems. At least New Year’s Eve will be just her and Mick. She considers the bouquet. What’s her resolution for 2001?

  She runs back across the field, around the back of the church to the shed, and deposits the white blossoms on the windowsill as if they might emit a fragrance that will absorb the dust of decaying bones and empty suitcases. She removes her father’s locket from her skirt pocket and places it alongside the daisies, considers tossing it through the cracked window. What stops her is the image of Tucker gazing out over the valley of lakes, searching for faith or at least something to make sense of his life. She retrieves the chipped stone heart from the windowsill and turns to leave. Maybe Tucker’s right: Henry Shepherd wasn’t a monster, simply an average guy trying to negotiate an impossible situation.

  She clutches the locket. The night her father left, he was sobbing at the kitchen table, holding this picture of her and the ashen remains of Lillian’s letter. Agonizing. Was he torn between being a responsible husband and father, and following his dreams? Had he been trying to do his best back then, too? Is that what he’s doing now?

  Mubaro is practically deserted, everyone home with their families, by the time Rachel hits the main street. She quickens her pace. Lillian and Nadine probably have Christmas lunch on the table by now. She startles at the tap of a horn, a truck slowing down beside her. Run. That’s her first thought when Christian Kensamara leans out the window and calls to her.

  “I was on my way to Kwizera,” he says. “Wait, we must talk.”

  “Unless you can tell me what happened to my father, we have nothing to discuss. Is he still alive?”

  “I promise you, I don’t know.”

  “Did your father hurt him?”

  “Please, Madame.”

  Something urgent in his voice makes Rachel stop. He stops the truck and opens the passenger door. “Come. I need your help.”