Diamonds in the Shadow (14 page)

But when his father did come home, Jared could not get him to understand how queer everything was.

“I'm over my head with the whole Brady Wall thing,” said his father. “This is your mother's project. Just deal.”

T
HE DREAM NEVER CHANGED BECAUSE
the truth never changed.

Alake stood with her slaughtered family on one side and the horrifying laughter of boy soldiers on the other. In her hands was a machine gun.

She loved her teachers. But she loved her sister.

Her sister's eyes were wide with fear and shock. Her teachers' eyes were wide with fear and shock.

Do you want your sister to live?

This was the choice.

Alake pulled the trigger. Her teachers were flung to the ground in a mist of blood. Victor took his weapon back. He was laughing. He shot Alake's sister anyway.

The most terrible thing about that terrible morning was that Alake no longer remembered her sister's name. Her sister's name evaporated like her town, for Victor left nothing standing: no people, no buildings, no animals, no crops. When he was done, Victor took Alake along.

She deserved whatever happened now, because she was as evil as any of them. She had killed two people.

Early that afternoon, they crossed paths with a convoy of
peacekeepers. Victor and the grown men with him melted into the bush. Alake and the boy soldiers were rounded up and taken away. What were the authorities to do with killers who were only eight or ten or twelve years old?

The killer children were isolated in a corner of a refugee camp, although the corner was not necessary. Everybody knew who they were. Not their names, nobody cared about their names, but what they had done. They were shunned. They could watch other children play. There were thousands of children, playing kickball and tag and soccer. But Alake and her group could not join in. Sometimes a boy tried, and then all the regular children would vanish and the child soldiers would be alone again.

Alone, they could not play. They did not know how.

Counselors came. We want to help you, they said. You are filled with grief and anger and shame, they said.

This was true, but the children did not respond. They were beyond help.

Once a missionary came.

Alake knew that she was a Christian, but even God was gone, without a trace, like her sister and her speech.

The killer boys had no women to pound their share of the grain, so they did it themselves, and after they made porridge, they left a portion for Alake. If they got rice, they gave her a share. Why? She was not really one of them; she had spent only a few hours in their troop.

After a long time Alake realized there was a school, and she crept toward it. She did not risk sitting under the shade of the
awning with the regular children, children who deserved school. But because the teacher yelled every lesson so that students at the back of the crowd could hear, Alake also could hear. But she could not hold on to lessons any more than she had held on to her sister.

Alake was dead. It was just that she had a heartbeat.

Alake knew why Celestine and Andre were afraid of the dark. Celestine and Andre knew what was out there.

People like Alake.

Yet again the refugee committee met at the Finches' house. Somebody had volunteered to take the Amabos out for the evening to see their first movie and taste their first popcorn. Jared wasn't sure this would work. Pizza had been a bust. Nobody would take a second bite. A seafood restaurant had been worse. Nobody would take a first bite.

Mopsy went along for the movie, filled with joy, of course, because it didn't take much with Mopsy, but Jared stayed for the meeting. He wanted to say what worried him, but he didn't want to sound racist or alarmist or just plain mean.

Mrs. Lame took charge, which depressed everybody, because she had so much to say about nothing. No surprise to Jared, she had been online and found a site where other African refugees were corresponding with each other. “When I took Andre to the doctor,” she said, “I discussed the Internet and useful Web sites,
but he simply would not pick up on it. I'm not sure how intelligent Andre is.”

“Andre is sharp as a tack,” said Mom. “It's not a question of intelligence. They've made it clear they don't want to deal with the past. Leave it alone.”

Mrs. Lame was not the kind of woman who left things alone. “I printed out the best pages,” she said, waving them around. “Celestine seems smarter than the others. I suggest you explain this to her. Furthermore, I'm worried about the daughter. What are we to do about this continuing silence?”

Perhaps the Mrs. Lames of the world were good for something after all. Now Jared wouldn't have to be the one to bring it up.

“Alake just needs time,” said his mom.

In what way would time solve the problem that Alake's own parents didn't care about her?

But Alake was not of general interest. “According to my records,” warned somebody, “at least four times a day, one of us is driving these people somewhere. When are they going to drive themselves? The days are turning into weeks and they don't make any progress. Where is the gas money coming from, anyway?”

“We have a separate refugee account, which was generously funded by the congregation,” said Dr. Nickerson. “Intact,” he added, before they could bring up Brady Wall.

“I think we should restrict clothing purchases to discount stores and thrift shops,” said another person, which opened a heated argument. Did refugees deserve good, expensive new clothes, like the American kids, or were any old used clothes fine?

The apartment committee gave their report. They hadn't found anything. They didn't expect to find anything. Celestine was earning very little, and Andre nothing. The kids had to stay in school, so exactly how were the Amabos to pay for an apartment, not to mention food, a car and insurance?

Jared moved his chair next to Dr. Nickerson. It was the minister's excitement about sponsoring refugees that had stirred the congregation in the first place. Under the hum of Mrs. Lame's next topic, Jared said, “The way these four guys behave toward each other is creepy.”

Bad approach. Instead of being appalled by the Amabos, Dr. Nickerson was appalled by Jared. “Their culture and lifestyle,” said the minister predictably, “and the destructive qualities of war and long-term displacement in foreign countries have alienated them. It is our task to provide a warm, welcoming atmosphere in which they are not judged.”

Implying that Jared was providing a cold, unwelcoming atmosphere and was judging left and right. Jared kept going. “They don't even seem to like each other.”

“That's unusual? I have never noticed that you particularly like your sister.”

“Right,” said Jared, and he bailed. Mom and Dad were out, the minister was out, the committee was out. If things were wrong in this family—and they were—there you had it. Nothing Jared could do.

“Where is Mattu today?” asked Mrs. Dowling.

“They're testing him in Guidance,” said Jared.

Hunter leaned forward. “What did that African family do to deserve all this help? I don't see why refugees get to mooch forever and ever.”

Only a few weeks before, Jared had fully agreed. Now he said cautiously, “I don't think it's mooching if we offer it.”

“How come the church can't help inner-city people right here in America, who probably wouldn't mind a free car and job assistance?”

The church had had a lot of arguments about that. Luckily, those meetings had not been held at Jared's house. “Come on, Hunter. They suffered. It's okay for us to help.”

“People have to make it on their own.”

“They will,” said Jared, who wasn't so sure.

“They'll end up on welfare,” said Hunter. “That father, the one without hands. Who let him in?”

Jared felt an unexpected loyalty to his African family. Mattu was on Jared's team now, and Hunter—a friend since nursery school—was the outsider. Jared grew dizzy thinking about this.

“My ancestors got off the boat at Ellis Island,” said Hunter, “and scrabbled and sweated and saved. That's what it is to be an immigrant.”

Mrs. Dowling sensed a teaching moment. “Let's tell immigrant stories.”

Half the class put their heads down on their desks to sleep
through this waste of time, but Tay said, “I have an interesting ancestor. My last name, Kinrath, is fictitious. The story is that my great-grandfather took syllables from the names of other people in line at Ellis Island and invented the name Kinrath. We don't know why he didn't use his real name, whether it was something slimy and horrible or something boring; whether he jilted a girl or murdered the mayor or just wanted adventure.”

Jared was blown away. Tay's great-grandfather had faked his way into the country. Was it so terrible, then, if Jared's four Africans had done the same?

“Oh, come on,” said Hunter. “Even generations ago, you had to have papers. You couldn't just say, ‘I think I'll be Joe Kinrath.' So either your ancestor forged his papers or stole papers or—”

“Or who cares?” said Tay.

The Refugee Assistance Panel discussed Victor's obsession with finding the strangers he had met on the plane.

“I think he wants this other family to support him,” said Victor's caseworker.

“He hasn't gone to work since his first day,” said the supervisor gloomily. “Is he asking for welfare?”

The caseworker was not sure that anybody's welfare was a priority for Victor. He said, “It's not our agency sponsoring the Amabo family. I could probably locate them, but I'd rather leave
it alone. I've been telling Victor that privacy laws prevent me from getting that information. I keep thinking that once he realizes he has to support himself, he'll go to work after all.”

The caseworker did not really think that.

He thought Victor was a dangerous man. But in America you could not go to the police about a person who had not yet done anything.