Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (27 page)

Victoria stood alongside Artimecy near the trailer. Jamal slid off the rear of the trailer, rubbing his eyes.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly.

“There be gunfire ahead of us,” Artimecy said.

The men had their heads close together, talking. Jamal wanted to go see what was happening, and when Victoria started toward the group, he went with her. Unconsciously, he scratched the mosquito bites on his arms.

“What is it?” Victoria asked in a whisper. Jamal stood quietly beside her, holding his rifle by the barrel while the butt rested on the ground.

“Gunfire ahead,” Parker said, his jaw rotating as he chewed the tobacco that seemed to live and multiply in his mouth.

“We have to know before we go farther. Wait here and I’ll go take a look,” Joel said.

“Better let me go first. That white face of yours don’t hide as well in the night as mine,” George said. “You gonna stick out.”

“Of course it’s so dirty now, you’d blend into Harlem,” Parker added.

George pushed around Joel and within seconds, the two men disappeared around the curve in the logging road.

A slight breeze took the exhaust fumes of the tractor and
whirled them around their heads before blowing off into the night. At least the wind was in their favor, even if it stung their eyes. Jamal blinked several times to clear his of the fumes.

Victoria took the end of her blouse and wiped her eyes, revealing for a brief moment the firm mounds of her breast.

The two men from the convoy joined them from the rear of the procession where they had been walking since the group buried the dead child earlier that day.

“I’ll go with them,” the younger man, called Jose, said.

“It could be dangerous,” Jamal said.

Jose laughed quietly. “Hey, man, I don’t see how much more dangerous this can get.” He reached forward and ruffled the sparse hair on Jamal’s head. “Besides, they may need a second set of eyes.”

“Well, be careful and don’t get yoreself shot coming up behind them,” Parker said. “Joel ain’t the cautious type, you know,” he said, pausing for a second. “And right now, I ain’t feeling too cautious myself.”

They watched as Jose jogged down the road to disappear around the corner. The other two couldn’t be too far ahead.

“They won’t be long,” Parker said, holding the shotgun in his right hand and resting the barrel in the crook of his left arm. “The highway is just a ways down the hill.”

“Are we planning on using the highway?” Victoria asked nervously, concern etched her face. “I kinda like using this back road.”

The idea of traveling on a highway caused Jamal’s eyes to widen. That didn’t sound like a good idea to him either. A tractor wasn’t going to get off the highway quick if they ran into rebels.

Parker spit a long trail off into the darkness. “Naw, we gotta cross the highway to get to the other side where this old road continues.”

“Good,” Victoria said, relief evident in her voice.

“How far does this old road go?” Jamal asked.

“Can’t rightly say,” Parker answered, his hand stroking his chin, a rasping sound accompanying his words as his hand brushed the two-day stubble of white whiskers. “This is about as far as we ever come. Now, Joel, me, and this young rascal
here, Cannon”—he reached over and tussled the hair of the twelve-year-old boy—“have hunted this area, and we know where the two halves of this old road connect. The problem is, we don’t know how much farther the old road continues before it peters out or reaches the point where even a tractor can’t make it.” He spit again, and in a reflective moment said, “We kinda lucky to have made it this far.” He brought his hand down. “Been a while since I’ve been this long without shaving.”

Jamal walked past Mr. Parker to the front of the tractor. He put his hand against the narrow end above the two small front wheels, and quickly jerked it back from the heat of the engine block.

Parker chuckled. “Yeah, son, you gonna lean on something, don’t do it on a tractor engine. They ain’t like the new ones. These will burn you without thinking.”

“Where are we?” Jamal asked, shaking his hand a couple of times and then blowing on it.

“About ten kilometers, I reckon, from Kingsville. I figure if this road holds out, it’ll take us within a klick or two of the town. Then, we’ll have to make a run for it.”

“I thought you didn’t know where this road leads, Mr. Parker.”

The older man looked down. “All roads lead someplace. Some are just better traveled than most.”

“I wish this one takes us all the way into Kingsville.”

“You and me both, boy. You and me both. We’ve been making good time. If the road keeps going in this direction, we may find ourselves a little south of Kingsville by morning—probably near their lake. Of course, that assumes whatever Joel and them find down the hill doesn’t stop us from crossing.”

Five minutes turned into ten, until finally Parker raised his shotgun and looked at the two lads. “Boy,” he said, looking at Cannon. “You and Jamal, stay here and guard. I’m going to step out a bit and see if I can see them. They been gone too long for my liking.” He looked at the man standing a couple of feet to Victoria’s left. “Benitez, you wanna come with me?”

Benitez was a head shorter than George and built almost in
a square, as if chest and hips had absorbed his waist. The small, slightly bowed legs made him waddle when he walked. Benitez’s head turned slightly toward Victoria.

“I’ll go with you,” he said in a heavy Hispanic accent.

All of the men were out there. Hope they don’t shoot each other, thought Jamal.

Mimy reached into a brown paper bag and pulled out a plastic bag with biscuits in it. Jamal’s mouth watered as he realized how long it had been since he and Selma had eaten. Where was Selma? He hurried back to the trailer. She was curled in a ball, sleeping, her knees nearly touching her chest. He brushed the mosquitoes off her legs and arms, then propped his gun against the side of the trailer, grabbed a nearby tablecloth, and covered her with it. She would have dozens of mosquito bites tomorrow. He patted Selma’s head and pulled a piece of trash out of her hair before grabbing his gun and hurrying back to the women.

Mimy handed a couple of the cold, crumbly biscuits to Jamal.

“Your sister still sleeping?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then, we’ll save a couple for her when she wakes up,” Artimecy whispered.

He had never tasted anything so delicious as he chewed the dry, two-day-old bread. He heard a moan from Victoria, and saw the shadow of a smile creep across her face as she chewed. He had this rush of euphoria for whatever great Being looked down because they were alive to enjoy this pauper meal.

“Here,” Mimy said from atop the trailer, holding a Mason jar with liquid in it. “Drink this to wash down that dry bread. It ain’t much, but it should take the edge off the appetite until morning.”

Victoria reached past Artimecy and took the jar from her. “What is it?” she asked as she unscrewed the top.

“That is pure grape juice, honey, made by Parker from our own grape vines.” She helped herself down from the trailer. “Or, I should say, nature’s grape vines. Parker and me got nearly an eighth acre on the farm where someone years ago must have tried to grow grapes, but they went wild. Personally,
I think juice is a whole lot better when it comes from wild grapes.”

Victoria took a deep drink before passing the jar to Jamal.

Jamal tilted the jar back, placing his lower lips over the ridges to keep the juice from leaking out. The taste of warm natural juice rushed over his tongue. He’d never realized how great food could taste. He passed the jar to Artimecy, and by the time they finished eating the biscuits, the jar was empty.

Artimecy and Mimy laughed softly.

“Good, ain’t it?” Artimecy asked, brushing the crumbs off her hands. “Cannon, you want something to eat?”

The young boy shook his head. He was crouched near the edge of the road, watching the darkness in the direction where the men had disappeared. Jamal thought maybe he should be up there with Cannon, but the food was so good.

“Artimecy, Mimy, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good in my life,” Victoria said.

Jamal swallowed, the last of the biscuit caught in his throat. It took three swallows to get it down. How could he feel so comfortable, knowing that somewhere out ahead might be men wanting to kill them? Must be the food.

Mimy brought out a plastic container with stale cookies, and they munched on them. Jamal lifted his gun and squatted beside the big tire, taking up a sentry position like Cannon while he listened to the soft talk of the women behind him.

Even as they whispered among themselves, their eyes focused forward, waiting for the men to return. From the questions Victoria asked, Jamal discovered how Parker and Artimecy had inherited the farm from Artimecy’s parents, who had come to Liberia years before the dual-citizenship law had been passed in America. Artimecy’s mother had passed away quietly in her sleep at the age of sixty-five, ten years ago this coming Christmas. It was a country-folk talk, where everything said had a purpose of ensuring everyone knew as much as possible about each other without revealing anything derogatory.

Joel and Mimy had been high school sweethearts from upper New York state. Their parents had expected them to go off to college, forget each other, marry someone of their own race, and make a good living with lots of grandchildren.
Instead, the two had eloped, much to the anger and angst of both sets of parents, who had yet to come to terms with the marriage and the grandchildren.

A liberal elderly aunt on Joel’s side thought the whole thing was romantic, according to Mimy—kind of a modern-day Romeo and Juliet. When the two young lovers fled their respective families, who were determined to break up a misguided marriage, the aunt had subsidized their emigration to Liberia with the purchase of an old plantation in the middle of the country. When the aunt died four years ago, she’d left clear title to the five-hundred-acre place in both their names. Joel and Mimy had been trying to reestablish family ties, and his parents had agreed to visit this fall—at least until this happened. Neither set of grandparents had ever seen their grandchild, Cannon, except in photographs mailed or posted on the Internet.

Jamal interrupted. “Someone’s coming,” he said, his voice high-pitched.

Cannon stepped from the shadows where he had been squatting quietly with his rifle across his knees. “It’s Mr. Swafford,” he said quietly.

Parker emerged out of the shadows of the pine trees. He hurried past the front of the tractor. “Quick, get a place cleared on the back of the trailer. Joel and them are bringing a wounded man. Cannon, get the Coleman lantern lit. We gonna need some light.”

“Won’t they be able to see it?” Jamal asked.

“Whoever shot those men is gone.”

Artimecy and Mimy quickly shoved aside the corn and a few boxes to clear a small place at the tail end of the trailer. Victoria moved aside more items to make the space wider. Even with the noise and occasional bumping of Selma, she never woke.

“You said ‘men.’ How many wounded they bringing?” Artimecy asked.

“Only one wounded. There’s a second man dead down there.”

“How badly wounded is he?” Victoria asked. She stood near where Cannon had been squatting.

“Is he African?” Cannon asked.

“Can’t tell how bad. He’s moaning, so he’s alive, but he ain’t complaining and that ain’t good. If we hadn’t gotten there when we did, he’d be in some critter’s stomach by morning.”

“Parker, watch what you’re saying. We got children here.”

“Is he African?” Cannon asked again.

“Their childhood ended two days ago, Artimecy. They need to know what the hell’s going on,” he said, his voice rising. “And no, he ain’t African. He’s American, unless we got Africans wearing U.S. Army uniforms.”

“Don’t use that tone with me, old man. You know what I mean,” Artimecy said, reaching up to slap him lightly on the chest.

“The U.S. Army is here?” Victoria asked, hope in her voice.

The noise of feet trampling bushes and the sound of grunts from the exertion of carrying a cumbersome burden announced the return. Benitez had a foot under each arm. Joel and Jose, the African-American youth, had the wounded soldier by the arms. George walked behind the three, holding the guns and continuously looking over his shoulders.

“Over here, Joel,” Mimy said, pointing to the back of the trailer.

“Sure is quiet,” Jamal said.

“Yeah, when they hear gunshots, the jungle knows to be quiet,” Cannon said.

Cannon held the Coleman lantern high, the bright arc light illuminating the night, revealing the greens and brown of the nearby forest. It also highlighted dark red blood bubbling through the bullet hole in the camouflage shirt.

George propped the guns against the large wheel of the tractor before crouching near the front of it, just out of the glow from the lantern. His gun pointed the way they had just come.

The three men laid the wounded American as gently as possible on the rough wooden planks of the trailer.

“I may be able to help. I’ve had some Red Cross training,” Victoria said, pushing her way to the wounded man.

Artimecy looked at the young man. “I think it may take more than Red Cross training for him, honey.” She leaned down and touched the man’s sweating forehead. “He’s too pale, Parker. We gotta stop this bleeding.”

Victoria grabbed the red-checkered tablecloth off Selma, ripped a huge piece from it, folded it a couple of times, and pressed it to the chest wound. “If we can stop the bleeding and the other lung isn’t punctured, he may live until we can get him to a hospital.”

She saw the looks between the adults. “What’s wrong?”

“Ain’t no hospital out here. Might be something they can do in Kingsville, but nothing we can do here except what you’re doing, honey.”

“I want my mommy,” Selma said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She saw the wounded man at her feet, and quickly covered both eyes. Soft murmuring emerged from her slightly opened lips, and tears glistened in the starlight. She sat motionless, her eyes squeezed shut.