A Steal of a Deal (12 page)

“Actually,” Miss Mona says, her voice just dreamy enough to tell me she’s had another brainstorm. That trouble-o-meter of mine is getting a workout.

“No way.” I have to derail whatever’s coming. “I can’t—
won’t
. It’s not in my job description. I’m not auctioning off hairy, pooping beasts. No matter what.”

“But, sugarplum—”

“Why, Andie, dear—”

“I won’t film them—”

“No makeup—”

A shrill whistle pierces the cacophony. I cover my still-ringing right ear, the one next to Max, the source of the deafening sound.

“What’d you do that for?” I ask.

“Because none of you is making any sense.” He looks at Aunt Weeby. “You know and I know we can’t sell Kashmiri yaks because import/export laws, customs officials, quarantines, and all that make it a nightmare.”

“But—”

“And”—he turns to me, as if she hadn’t spoken—“I’m with you on this one. We’re not chasing yaks on-screen.”

I grin. “You see the light! You agree with me—”

“But I’d like to know,” he says, ignoring my victory cheer, “what Miss Mona thinks. Her ideas are usually pretty solid.”

“You’ll see.” I shrug, pretending a confidence I don’t feel. “She’ll agree with me sooner or later. Who’d want a yak?”

Miss Mona humphs. We turn.

She pats Aunt Weeby’s shoulder. “They’re right, you know. We can’t auction off wild and woolly beasts, but we can latch on to the exotic woolens craze. You know what they’re getting for llama and alpaca scarves, sweaters, and shawls?
Whoo-ee!
My word, they’re pricey.”

At first, Aunt Weeby looks disappointed—why she would ever want to deal with a yak, I’ll never know—but then a satisfied smile curves her lips.

“See? I told all y’all it was a good idea. We will be selling yaks, after all. Just not the whole yak.”

Miss Mona nods. “Yak woolens can certainly keep Maine lobstermen, Minnesotans, and Michiga—what
do
they call themselves in Michigan? Michiganians? Michigonians?” She shrugs. “Anyway, all those who live in cold places will have something special to keep them warm all winter long now. And the S.T.U.D.’s going to see to it.”

“Plus the Kashmiri will make a living,” Aunt Weeby adds.

Max drapes that long arm over my shoulders. “If we play our cards right, we’ll never have anything to do with the scratchy things. Maybe Danni can come up with some selling gimmick. Yak woolens and spandex Capris. All the rage.”

I swat at him, laughing at the thought. “I suggest we all sleep on this idea. It’s going to take some mountain moving to get it to happen.”

As we head off toward our respective rooms, I pray for the Lord’s mercy. Again. But then, outside our room, when Aunt Weeby hugs me, I realize my relief may have come prematurely.

“You know,” she says. “That there yak butter’s pretty tasty. Maybe there’s some way for me to get it shipped to the S.T.U.D. . . .”

I close the door firmly on her ramblings. Only Aunt Weeby would think about importing gamey yak butter for American palates. Not in a million years— That’s when it hits me. The yaks will, soon enough, be a nonissue. And we—I—have better things to think about. Tomorrow we’ll be working at the orphanage, helping little kids who know nothing but sadness and loneliness. I pray I can make a difference for at least one of them.

There’s also the possibility that, if we don’t rattle any unfriendly natives, we might get to film the played-out sapphire mines. I am excited; just don’t tell the Daunting Duo—it might give them more ideas.

Of course, we plan to film in this open, treeless land, a disputed territory, over which numerous wars have been fought, where Taliban forces are said to hide.

They have weapons.

We have Aunt Weeby.

Trouble?

Oh yeah!

Who cares about yak butter at a time like this?

The next morning, I make a personal discovery. I’ve developed an addiction. Oh, come on. You know it’s going to be harmless! At least, it’s only bad for my hips and waistline.
Sheermal
are sweet Kashmiri breads eaten for breakfast. Chased down with cups of hot green tea, they have now become my greatest weakness.

Too bad I’m nearly hopeless in the kitchen. I’d love the recipe. If I could really cook. You can’t get
sheermal
by nuking.

Now you know why everyone’s staring at me. They’re ready to roll. I’m still at the table, sipping and munching.

The thought of the kids at the orphanage is the only thing that gets me moving. Well, that and the end of the stack of
sheermal
. Let’s face it. I like my creature comforts. And it’s cold out here on the mountain peaks. I don’t want to move from the relative warmth of this room. Trust me, this trip is not for the faint of heart.

But, armed with backpacks full of what we consider crucial for our day, we head out to The Father’s Lambs with the Musgroves. Once we leave the farmhouse, it hits me again. Few people have ever seen this place. And I’m really here. The steep Himalayan peaks, sliced by rocky crags, inspire my greatest respect. This must be one of the most wildly beautiful places God has created. On our way here to Soom-jam, we saw enormous contrasts. On the one hand, Srinagar and other small cities closer to the Indian border seem to have been spared by the earthquake. As we climbed into the higher elevations, however, that changed.

I’d read that the villagers in the mountains usually use flimsy construction methods, but I wasn’t prepared for the devastation I saw. The worst of the rubble had been moved from the center of some of the villages, and tent cities were set up where the vulnerable homes once stood. The Musgroves described the tents as weatherized, but let me tell you, no one wants to spend a Himalayan winter in any kind of tent.

I
don’t want to spend a Himalayan winter. At all. It’s cold here. And yeah, it’s summer. In August—
August
—I’m forced to pull on fleece outerwear. Hey! The temperature’s hovering around a balmy forty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

Uh-huh.

I’ll take Kentucky’s hot, sticky summers any day!

Then we reach the orphanage. We meet the children. Beautiful little faces peer at us, the eyes huge and filled with hope. That they’ve seen things they never should have is without question. What is also unquestionable is their strength and courage. How can I not help?

The orphanage is getting a new wing, and that’s where most of us are needed. We set up shop at the far west end of the building, find hammers, nails, saws, and boards, and get to work.

Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona head indoors to spend their time cuddling beautiful, lonely babies and working on less strenuous jobs. Every time I get a break—from work and Xheng Xhi’s constant presence at my side—I chase them down; can’t stay away from the kids. This time, I find Aunt Weeby in the laundry, two little girls at her side. The three of them are having the funniest conversation; no way can they understand each other.

But with Aunt Weeby, it’s the love that carries the day.

“. . . And that’s the kind of horses we have in Kentucky,” she says as she holds out a stack of snow-white towels. “Kentucky. Say ‘Kentucky.’”

The girl giggles, whispers something that sounds like “Khaki,” then scurries from the room. The other one waits for Aunt Weeby to finish another pile of towels.

“Hey, Aunt Weeby. Sounds like they find Kentucky as hard to say as we find the names of their towns.”

“Nuh-uh, sugarplum. She’s just little. Can’t be so hard. Don’t see how it could be. Kentucky’s easy. We just need to teach them English. It’s not so hard.”

“You really think they’d find it easier than . . . Kashmiri? Is that what they speak?”

Emma Musgrove rolls in a massive laundry cart piled high with what looks like clean sheets. She launches into über-convoluted descriptions of the zillion-and-one different dialects spoken in the Indian peninsula and this stark region so close to Pakistan. None of it registers with me, since the sweet children claim every bit of my attention.

The little girl waiting on my aunt steals my heart. She stands at Aunt Weeby’s side, her big, brown eyes taking in every move she makes.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“This is our Devi,” Emma answers. “She lived with her grandmother about fifty miles northwest of here. The quake destroyed their shack and . . . well, it took her grandmother too.”

I blink angry tears from my eyes. “Why hasn’t anyone built decent housing in this country? In the villages we went through, I saw nothing more than lean-tos built from junk. Oh yeah! The lucky ones had a tin roof.”

Emma rubs Devi’s glossy black hair; Devi gives her a shy smile. “Poverty and politics make it impossible. That’s why we’re here. ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these . . .’”

Something squeezes deep inside me.
Oh, Lord Jesus! Father
God, help us help them.

As my heart breaks, I go back outside to do my part to improve the children’s livelihood, my resolve reaffirmed. They might no longer have homes of their own, and they might no longer have families of their own, but they do have God’s love. We, his children, will be their new family, care for them any way we can. As I stack wood and bricks, the image of Devi fills my mind. Over and over again, my eyes overflow, which in turn makes me work that much harder. I want to give Devi a decent place to live, and sadly, there are dozens of Devis, some of whom come watch us, fascinated by what we’re doing.

Not that all of it is productive, you know. Xheng Xhi’s on a new kick. Every chance he gets, he plies me with questions about all things American. The guy has way more questions than I have answers.

Why me, Lord?
Why not Allison? Or Glory? They’re both out here too. But noooo. He picks me.

And his latest kick is fast food; I’m so not a fan. “Miss Andie?” he says. “McDonald’s, right?”

“What’s that?”

He draws arches in the air. “McDonald’s. Good, right?”

A Kashmiri guide and Micky Dee’s? I shrug. “McDonald’s is fast food. It’s okay. Not the best.”

He droops with disappointment. “No good?
McDonald’s
? I hear it very good.”

What can I say? “It’s chopped up meat, mushy bread, soaked dried onions, with ketchup, mustard, and a pickle on top. What’s so great about that?”

“Chop tup meat?” He scratches his long beard. “What is ‘tup’?”

I mime chopping. “I meant chopped—cut into tiny little pieces.”

“Ah! Like
rista
?”

Rista.
That sounds like something I’ve eaten in Kashmir . . . aha! At the restaurant. “No.
Rista
is round, a meatball. McDonald’s are flat meatballs.” I pantomime squashing the meatball. “McDonald’s.”

Alarm widens his eyes. “Dead? McDonald’s die?”

“No! Flat.”

Where’s our translator when we need him? I look around, and spot him with the “other party” that traveled up the mountains behind us. Like the rest of them, he sports the familiar gun-shaped lump under his clothes.

Oooops! Not calling him.

So I try pantomime again. I cup my hands as though forming meatballs. “Ball of meat.
Rista
, right?”

He nods.

I smush the pretend meatball. “Flat
rista
inside bread. That’s McDonald’s.”

“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t look convinced. “Not dead.”

“No, not dead.” If I have trouble explaining a beef patty, I won’t even try to explain the health of corporate America, with a burger joint on every street. I go back to work.

An hour later, Xheng Xhi is back. He points at Max. “Golf, yes?”

Figures. “Yes.”

He then swings an imaginary golf club. “You golf?”

“Ah . . . no.” His whole body droops with disappointment. I smile gently and point at the jock—I’ll kill two birds with one stone. Max can answer questions I can’t, and Xheng Xhi can bug someone else. “Ask him.”

He jabbers at me in his dialect while I stare in horrified fascination. If he thinks I get even a fraction of that, he’s wackier than Aunt Weeby. But once he’s done and smiles, he does head over to my cohost.

Peace. For a while. But it turns out I’m not the best carpenter, not when you compare me to Glory or Allison. They’re smokin’, while I’m still trying to get the hang of holding wood, hammer, and nail all at the same time with only two hands. Yes, my heart’s in my work, but my talent isn’t. Every other swing of the hammer misses and dents wood. The saw is beyond me; I chew wood into useless chunks of oversize sawdust. Trevor Musgrove, who I decide must be the world’s most patient man, tries to improve my hammer-and-nails technique again.

So I focus on construction for another hour. Then I smash a thumb.

While I suck on my injured digit, I realize the sun’s begun to drop in the sky. It’s time to call it a day. I want to live to try again tomorrow. I look around and notice that, aside from the diligent and silent Trevor, who’s still whacking away about fifteen feet from me, everyone else has already quit. At least I gave it all my effort.

The only ones still outside are the crowd of our former observers, none over the age of . . . oh, about twelve. But they’re not watching anymore. And I now enter a parallel universe. Go ahead. Pipe in the theme song to
The Twilight
Zone
. It won’t faze me. There’s no other way to explain what I see.