Forty Days at Kamas (50 page)

"The only problem is that we can’t locate Claire’s father. It seems he’s been in a labor camp but this month his sentence was commuted to exile. They tell us here that he’s cleared to leave the country as soon as he’s transferred back to Philadelphia. The reason I was trying to reach Doug is that–

"You already know…? Do you know whether Claire's father is still there?"

"Are you positive? When is he supposed to get here?"

"That’s wonderful! Claire will be overjoyed–"

"No, we don’t have much time, either. Go ahead with the reason why you were trying to reach me."

Martha drew a sharp breath then suddenly sat bolt upright in the hard metal chair.

"When did it happen?" she asked weakly as she stared out through the glass partition. "And the doctor…"

"Yes, Fred, I will. I’ll call from the motel."

Martha hung up the phone and said nothing.

Helen waited for Martha to speak. Claire waited eagerly for news of her father. But Martha’s face remained utterly blank, as if she had gone into a trance.

"Do you know where he is?" Claire pressed. "Is he coming?"

Martha faced her with a distracted smile.

"Your father is on his way here," she said.

"And the other news?" Helen asked. "Is everything all right?"

Martha shook her head. "It’s Doug. They say he had an accident. Cleaning his pistol…"

At that instant the immigration officer came over to the women waving a computer printout in his hand.

"Here’s the clearance number," he said, handing the printout to Claire. "Take it back to the counter and you'll be free to go."

Claire took the paper and bolted through the glass door to the emigration counter with Martha and Helen not far behind.

A moment later, Claire heard the distinctive clunk of the self–inking rubber stamp marking her papers, then the sharp slap of the passport being returned to the counter. The young woman behind the counter cocked an eyebrow toward the gate, as if to suggest that Claire not waste any more time before boarding her flight.

Claire snatched up the passport and stepped briskly past the counter into the transit area, then abruptly retraced her steps and threw her arms around Helen’s neck.

"This time everything is going work out fine," Helen assured her. "Will you promise to send me a letter as soon as you arrive?"

"I will," Claire answered with glistening eyes. She turned to Martha and embraced her.

"I miss Marie already," she told Martha, stifling a sob. "Can you send me a picture of her now and then?"

"Of course," Martha replied. "And we won’t forget you, either, Claire. But you really must go now or you'll miss your flight. Quick, get on board and find your mother and sister!"

With Helen and Martha urging her on toward the gate, Claire turned around one more time, as if to imprint their faces in her mind.

By the time she reached the gate, only a handful of passengers remained in the waiting area. The gate agents had already closed the departure counter and were preparing to shut the door to the ramp.

Claire was out of breath when she reached the door and handed the agent her ticket.

"Not a moment too soon," said the agent, a woman of fifty who smiled at Claire in a motherly way. "You’re the last to board, except for the gentleman in the corner."

Claire glanced into the ill–lit corner of the waiting area, where a rail–thin man with a gray crew cut stood between two broad–shouldered giants in baggy blue suits. To her mind, the thin man’s long–sleeved khaki shirt and khaki trousers made him look like a forest ranger or a gardener. She was about to turn away and enter the walkway to the plane when she saw one of the giants pull a key from his breast pocket and unlock the handcuffs that bound his own wrist to that of the thin man.

At that moment the thin man noticed Claire looking at him and stared back. He took a step forward and continued to return her gaze.

All at once Claire dropped her backpack and rushed into the thin man's arms. She looked into her father's laughing eyes, felt his bony ribs under her hug, then seized his callused but still gentle hands.

"Claire, Claire, Claire," he repeated over and over.

He held his daughter at arm’s length and gazed at her with fatherly pride. Paul Wagner’s eyes now brimmed with more tears than all the ones he had shed during his imprisonment.

"Dad, is it really you?" Claire sobbed. "I tried to find you!"

"I know," he replied. "Thanks for not giving up on me."

Claire drew back from her father and laughed.

"Dad, you look so skinny! Mom’s not going to believe it!"

Paul Wagner peered down at his legs and grasped a fold of loose khaki around his scrawny thigh. He neither smiled nor frowned, but instead gave a look of benign acceptance, as if the suffering of the last two years were being washed away. When he took his daughter’s hand again a bright new smile started in his eyes and radiated lines of happiness not seen on his gaunt face since long before his arrest. He let out a soft laugh.

"Come on, Claire, let’s go surprise your mom."

****

Preston Fleming was born in Cleveland, Ohio. He left home at fourteen to accept a scholarship at a New England boarding school and went on to a liberal arts college in the Midwest. After earning an MBA, he managed a non–profit organization in New York before joining the U.S. Foreign Service and serving in U.S. Embassies around the Middle East for nearly a decade. Later he studied at an Ivy League law school and has since pursued a career in law and business. Preston lives in Boston with his wife and two children. He has written five novels.

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