by Leylah Attar
“Yes. It was supposed to be Karibu Estate. Karibu means welcome, but I was still learning Swahili back then and I wrote Kaburi on the work order. It means a grave. Sam—my husband—thought it was hilarious. He refused to correct it. He always said he’d love me to his grave.” Goma stared into her bowl. “And so he did. He loved me to the end.”
I sensed the beginning of an epic love story, the kind I was always hungry for, but she didn’t say anything more. She just smiled wistfully and swirled her spoon around the bowl in little circles.
“Should we . . . should someone go get Jack?” I asked as lightning pierced the sky again. I was starting to feel terrible about what I’d said to him.
“He’ll come in when he’s done. And he’ll keep doing it, until one day, he doesn’t need to anymore. It’s what you’re doing too, aren’t you? Miles from home. Mourning your sister in your own way. You’ve got to let it run its course. Give in until it’s spent and quiet, until you’ve learned to breathe through the loss.”
I had a spoonful of my soup and thought about what she’d said. Mo’s death was like a door that had been sealed shut forever. I could never walk through it, never listen to her go on about all the inconsequential things that I missed so terribly now. There is an invisible threshold of possibilities when someone is alive. It contracts when they’re gone, swallowing up all the worlds that hover around them—names of people they’d never meet, faces of kids they’d never have, flavors of ice cream they’d never taste. Losing Mo hurt like hell, but I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to lose a child.
“I thought I told you to leave.”
I jumped at the sound of Jack’s voice. He was drenched to the core, standing by the back door in a puddle of water. The hoodie was gone and his T-shirt was molded to the kind of muscles that came with hard, physical labor. We were high up at the foot of the mountain, where the air held a touch of frost in the evenings, but he showed no sign of being cold. Perhaps that was the point—standing in the rain past the point of numbness.
“I invited them in,” said Goma.
Jack followed her eyes and noticed Bahati for the first time.
“Habari, Jack,” said Bahati.
Jack nodded in acknowledgment. He had no reaction to seeing a muumuu-clad man at his grandmother’s table. Then his eyes fell on Scholastica, and everything changed. If he had been harsh with me before, he was positively hostile toward her. His hands clenched into tight fists by his sides, hackles rising until the air bristled with unspoken tension.
“That’s Lily’s,” he growled.
“So it is.” Goma didn’t seem perturbed by his reaction. “Scholastica needed a change of clothes, so I gave her Lily’s dress.”
Jack’s jaw clenched, like he had just stopped himself from biting someone’s head off. Scholastica huddled closer to Goma, shriveling under his biting glare.
“I think we should go now,” I said to Bahati. I had no idea if they’d let Scholastica board with me at the volunteer’s hostel until I figured something out. All I knew was that I didn’t like the way Jack Warden made me feel. I was used to constants with people—a nice, smooth line, with maybe a few blips here and there. But with Jack, it was like a polygraph test gone wild, the recording needle jumping all over the place. I went hopeful to insulted, from being sympathetic about his loss to infuriated by his attitude.
“No one’s going anywhere in this weather. In case you haven’t been listening to the forecast, the storm isn’t going to clear any time soon,” said Goma. “There are no streetlights for miles and the roads are treacherous in the rain. Besides, you have Scholastica to think about.”
“I’m sure the hostel can accommodate her for one night,” I replied. “I can call ahead and—”
“That’s not what I—”
“It’s not safe,” Jack declared. “You leave in the morning.”
I stared at him in silence. What made him think he had the right to call the shots on what I did? Or when? Maybe if he’d said it differently, like he gave a damn, I would have considered it, but he clearly didn’t want us there, and I wasn’t about to accept any grand favors from him.
“You can’t make that decision for us.” I lifted my chin and met his gaze.
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. I was pretty sure I was seconds from combusting into a pile of smoldering ash when his scrutiny shifted.
“Bahati.” He held out his hand. “Keys.”
Bahati cast a furtive glance at me, but he clearly didn’t want to lock horns with Jack.
The keys disappeared as Jack closed his fingers over them and slid them into his pocket. “You leave in the morning.” He looked pointedly at me.
“Well. It’s settled then.” Goma shot me an expression that left no room for protest. She got up and filled a bowl of soup for Jack. “Now sit down and have a bite to eat.”
“Later. I’m going to take a shower,” he announced, peeling off his T-shirt and wiping his face with it. He was tanned all over, with no lines marking his skin, except for the dark cuts sculpting his washboard abs. He started heading upstairs and then turned around. Trickles of water ran down his back from hair that was still glistening from the rain. “Bahati, come with me. I have something you can borrow. You need to get out of that . . . thing.”
Bahati glared at Goma before following Jack out.
“What?” She glared back. “You wear that tribal robe all the time. Same thing, just with sleeves.”
“You know Bahati?” I asked, when the men were gone.
“Yes. Anyone who’s been to The Grand Tulip knows him. Jack used to take his wife there on weekends—his ex-wife, Sarah. She wasn’t made for life out here. They met while Jack was studying in Kenya. The farm seemed like a romantic notion to her then, but once she got here, it drove her nuts. She missed the shops and restaurants. The spa at The Grand Tulip was her favorite haunt, so Jack drove her to town whenever he could. He’d take her to see a show afterward. Sometimes they stayed over. He ran into Bahati there. The staff there is nice, but they all make fun of him. He stands out front like a brave warrior, but he’ll squeal if a ladybug lands on him. He’s the first to abandon post at the slightest hint of trouble. They laugh because, in spite of all that, he wants to be an action hero. Not Jack. Back then he was all about chasing your passion. He took one look at Bahati and told him he wasn’t qualified. The Maasai walk everywhere, but that wasn’t going to cut it. How was he going to handle a high-speed car chase, if he broke out in hives at the thought of getting behind the wheel? So, while Sarah was getting her massages, Jack taught Bahati how to drive.”
“I don’t know if I’d be taking credit for that,” I mumbled, thinking of my white-knuckled ride with him.
“What’s that?”
I shook my head and looked around. “You have a lovely home. I hope we’re not imposing.”
“Not at all. I can’t remember the last time we had company. It’s just Jack and me in this big old place. Sarah moved back to Cape Town many years ago. They divorced when Lily was a few years old. I can’t tell you how much I looked forward to having her over. I miss her dearly, and having a little one under our roof again makes me happy.” She wiggled her finger at Scholastica, “We have lots of spare rooms. You can take your pick.” She pointed me down the hall. “There’s a linen closet on the left with bed sheets and extra towels. Help yourself.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Would it be all right if I made a quick call? I need to let my friend know not to expect me tonight.”
“Of course.” Goma waved me in the direction of the living room.
There was an old-school rotary phone on the console. I dialed the number to Nima House and asked for Corinne.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At Kaburi Estate.”
“Where?”
“It’s a coffee farm, run by Jack Warden and his grandmother. I couldn’t get a hold of Gabriel. Bahati said Jack might be able to help.”
“Jack Warden? The sa
me Jack Warden who lost his daughter in the mall attack?”
“Jack lost his daughter in the mall attack?”
“Yes. That’s him. I remember now. He was at the memorial for victims of Kilimani Mall.”
“I didn’t know.” I sat down, realizing what Goma meant when she said we were bound by the events of a tragic afternoon. He had lost Lily, the same place, same time, as I had lost Mo.
“Yes. He got some kind of recognition award for saving an expectant mother and her son. Never got up to receive it. He just sat there, looking like he wasn’t seeing or hearing any of it. His daughter’s dance teacher received an award too, for getting the kids to safety. It’s a shame his daughter wasn’t one of them. How is he now?”
“Intimidating. Sad, angry, bitter. I think he might have a death wish. He was standing under a tree in the storm, by his daughter’s grave, like he wanted to be struck down right next to her. He didn’t want to hear anything I had to say about the kids or Wanza.”
I stayed on the phone long enough to catch Corinne up on Scholastica.
“You won’t be able to bring her back to the hostel with you,” she said. “It’s for volunteers only. They made an exception for you, because of what happened to Mo.”
“I’ll figure something out. Maybe Jack’s grandmother can point me in the right direction.” I said goodbye and hung up.
“If you think getting Goma involved will convince me to help, you’re wrong.”
I spun around to find Jack watching me from the doorway, sipping a bottle of Coca-Cola. The shower had brought the warmth back into his face, but his voice sent cold shivers up my spine.
“You’ve made it clear you’re not interested, but if you think I’m giving up, you’re the one who’s wrong,” I replied.
He regarded me across the room, eyes glowing with something inscrutable, not moving, not saying another word.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I said, when the tension became too much to bear. “And about what I said earlier.”
He nodded and stared into his bottle.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” he said. “Bahati filled me in. Take my advice.” He shifted and pinned me down with his gaze. “Pack up and go home. You’re in way over your head. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
I flared up. For some reason, Jack Warden got under my cool-as-a-cucumber skin. Every. Single. Time. “You know what? I am getting tired of you assuming you know what’s best for me. You can’t help me? Fine. But I didn’t ask for your advice, and I sure as hell am not going to let it stop me.”
“Tell me something.” His voice was calm and unaffected. It irritated me. He irritated me. “Exactly how much did your sister tell you, about these kids that you want to get to Wanza?”
“I . . . she . . .” I cursed myself for not paying closer attention to all the things that Mo had chattered on about. “What does it matter? What exactly is it that you think I can’t handle?”
Seconds ticked by before he answered. “You don’t want to know. Trust me. Some things are better left in the dark, where they belong.” Then he drained his bottle of Coca-Cola in a long chug and left the room.
THE PIERCING CALL of a rooster woke me the next morning. It crowed every ten minutes, telling me it was dawn, even though it felt like I had only just fallen asleep. I rolled out of bed, shivering in Goma’s muumuu, and walked to the window.
There was just enough light to make out a figure in the fields. It was Jack, on a tractor, plowing through a bare patch of earth. I tried to imagine what it would feel like, grieving for someone in a place where things kept growing, where new life burst through the soil with bright, green shoots every day.
Where have you brought me, Mo? What are you showing me?
I made my way to the laundry room and found my clothes washed, ironed and ready to wear. I slid them on, savoring the warmth that was still folded into them.
“Oh good. You’re up,” said Goma, when I entered the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready. Be a dear and go get Bahati and Scholastica. They’re in the library.”
The house was a rambling structure, new rooms extending out of the original building over the years, nooks and crannies everywhere. It took me a while to track down Bahati and Scholastica, and when I did, I stopped dead in my tracks.
They were seated on the floor, across from each other—one of them tall, lean, and dark as night, the other soft and silver, like moonlight—watching the strangest sight: a tortoise with a yellow balloon tied around it, crossing the floor between them. They looked at me from the corner of their eyes, then back at the tortoise, and then at each other. The tortoise plodded along on round, stumpy feet, squinting at them—left, then right—like a crusty old man shaking his head in somber disapproval. We all started laughing at the same time. Scholastica’s giggles filled the space, even after Bahati and I stopped to catch our breaths.
“Come on, you two. Breakfast is ready,” I said, making eating motions for Scholastica. I headed for the door but stopped short for the second time that morning.
Jack was standing there, his eyes fixed on Scholastica. His boots were muddy, sleeves rolled up, one foot forward, but going nowhere, as if he’d been frozen by the sound of her laughter—a little girl in his daughter’s dress, giggling over a tortoise and a balloon.
Scholastica clammed up as soon as she saw him, still wary of his reaction to her from the night before. She kept her head down as he strode into the room toward her. Seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence as his shadow loomed over her. Then he said something to her in Swahili. She nodded and went back to staring at the tortoise. Jack reached into his pocket for something and popped the balloon.
BANG.
The tortoise snapped its head and limbs into its shell so fast, the air expelled out of its lungs in a long, hiss. It lay on the floor, vexed and disgruntled, with the balloon in tatters around it, like little yellow flags of surrender.
“And that’s the fastest you’ll see Aristurtle move,” observed Jack, before repeating it in Swahili for Scholastica. He knelt beside the spooked tortoise and stroked his shell. “You okay, little fellow?”
Aristurtle poked his pebbled head out warily and looked at Jack with grizzled contempt.
Scholastica burst out laughing. She laughed so hard, she rolled over, holding on to her stomach. Jack sat back and watched her, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the sound of it was piercing his heart with the sweetest shrapnel. He rose and headed over to the corner where a bunch of other yellow balloons were bobbing and handed one to Scholastica. She took it and pointed to the turtle.
“No.” He shook his head. “For you.”
“Lord.” Goma walked in and gave all of us the stink eye. “I send one to get the other and lose all of you. Everyone in the kitchen. Come along now.”
She marched us to the table and filled our plates with food. “Coffee from our farm,” she said, pouring Bahati and me a cup before sitting down.
“It’s delicious,” I said, after the first hot sip. “Thank you. And thanks for looking after my clothes this morning. I hope I’m half as active when I’m your age.”
“It’s the farm,” Goma replied. “Clean air, hard work, fresh food.”
Scholastica tied her balloon on the chair next to Jack, and sat down beside him. He buttered a piece of toast, slathered it with jam, and put it on her plate. He blinked when she thanked him, as if it was something he’d done out of habit, not realizing until after he was finished.
“I heard you saved an expectant mother and her child during the mall attack,” I said, as Bahati and Goma conversed at the other end of the table. “That’s incredible.”
“Is it?”
I put my fork down and looked at him. “What’s your problem? Every time I try to be nice, you throw it back in my face. Every time I think there’s another side to you, you go back to being a jerk.”
“That’s because I am a jerk. I’m the jerk who let his daughter die. I was in the mall that day.
Right there. And I stopped to get a couple of strangers out first. I was too busy saving other lives.”
“Did you ever think that maybe they saved yours?”
“You think they saved me?” Jack laughed. Yet another kind of laugh. This one filled with deep, dark irony. Did he ever just laugh, like normal people? Really laugh?
He leaned across the table, so close that I could make out the gold rings around his icy blue irises. They were the color of parched Savannah grass, waiting for rain. “In a thousand lives, I would die a thousand deaths to save her. Over and over and over again.”
I believed him. Every word. Because of the way he said it.
I had no comeback, so I watched as he got up, opened the fridge and reached for a bottle of Coca-Cola. He placed the edge of the cap against the counter and hit it with the palm of his hand. After discarding the cap, he pulled up a chair, tilted his head back and drained the bottle in one go.
What an odd man, I thought. A coffee farmer who didn’t drink coffee.
Most people drowned their sorrows in something stronger. Jack chose a bottle of Coca-Cola. Maybe he wanted to be fully aware, fully awake to the pain. Maybe Jack Warden liked the pain because he believed it was exactly what he deserved.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do next?” Goma asked me.
I turned my attention away from Jack and focused on her. “I was hoping you know someone who’d be willing to take Scholastica and me to Wanza, with a couple of stops along the way.”
“I know the perfect man for the job. He’s sitting right at this table, and he knows it too, but he’s too wrapped up in himself to give a damn.”
“You didn’t lose a daughter,” growled Jack, keeping his eyes on his plate.
“No, I didn’t,” replied Goma. “I lost my only son, your father. And I lost his wife, your mother, in the same accident. I lost my husband. And I lost Lily, my great granddaughter. That’s four generations I’ve buried out back. And I’m still standing. You think I didn’t want to go to sleep and never wake up from the loss? Each and every time? You think my heart and yours are so different? They’re not. I hurt as much as you do, Jack. But I get up because you’re still here. You’re the only one left, and you know what? You’re enough. You’re reason enough to keep me standing. And it kills me to see you like this, alive on the outside but dead and hollow on the inside. You hear me? It kills me.”
