Monday Morning Faith (29 page)

I gaped at him, speechless. My mouth opened and closed. I was incapable of speech. I
had
tried. I tried my best to share his passion. Why couldn't he see that?

I tightened my lips and balled my hands into fists to keep from swatting him. I would
not
let this man goad me into losing control. Forget that any semblance of self-control had been notably absent from my behavior already — I would not yield to my baser instincts and resort to violence. That's not to say I didn't
want
to. The palms of my hands itched with the need to connect with something. Especially this arrogant, hot-tempered, unjust … !

I glared up at him, looking for any sign of repentance, any remorse for the way he'd just spoken to me. Nothing. His hard jawline was as uncompromising as volcanic rock. All right, if that was the way he wanted it, fine. Two could play this game. Throwing him one final glower, I stood, then spun on my heel and marched off.

Dinner that night was as uncomfortable as the garden of Eden after the fall. The missionaries were aware of the “clinic explosion.” Sam must have told them, because I sure hadn't mentioned it. Conversation was stilted, to say the least. Not one mention of work accomplished that afternoon. As soon as we finished eating, Sam left, rowing off somewhere to be by himself. Fine.

Frank and Bud sat outside the Laskes' hut conversing in low tones. Eva and Mary went about their work, saying very little, but I sensed their distress. Okay, maybe I
had
made a fool of myself over a couple of insignificant safety pins. Sure I could buy five dozen if I wanted to, but that wasn't the issue.

Well, what is the issue, Johanna? The pins are valueless possessions — nothing more, nothing less. If a pin would send you into orbit, what happens when someone takes something of yours that really matters? Will you revert to the world's standards? Take back, at any cost, all you have — which the Lord provided in the first place?

The thought stopped me cold. I lay on my cot long after the others had retired and thought about my life, my self-centered instincts, and realized that often I was as barbaric in my ways as the villagers. Mine, mine, mine. If I was ever going to change, it had to start now.

Dawn found me rummaging through my suitcase, looking for the children's books I'd brought. I couldn't imagine why the natives hadn't stolen them, but maybe they had no interest in literature.

Ha, Johanna. Not funny.

Nelda had chosen stories from the library stock, assuring me that children everywhere loved them. Today, the village children would have a story hour they'd never forget. I could play Sam's game; I could be involved with these people.

I removed the lock from the case and threw it out my open window, listening for the splash as it hit the water. If the villagers took everything I had, so be it. I would not have Sam and the others thinking I was a selfish Neanderthal. I might well be, but I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of proving it. Let the villagers wear my undies on their heads — I wouldn't say another word.

I shook off the sluggishness and headache that refused to go away. Well, no wonder; I'd slept in snatches, too upset by Sam and our argument to rest.

Sam was sitting at the table drinking coffee with Frank and Mary when I parted the curtain. Our eyes connected with cold distance.

“Morning, Johanna.”

“Good morning, Doctor.” I poured a glass of juice, drank half of it, and pushed it aside. My appetite was gone.

After breakfast the men and Eva and I left for the village. Mary stayed behind to rest. The missionaries talked among themselves, not ignoring me, just giving me room to sit in the bow. Eva tried a couple of times to engage me in small talk, but I remained silent, clutching the book — and my tattered pride — to my chest. I refused to meet Sam's eyes. The moment we landed, I was out of that boat like a gunshot and striding up the incline. The others followed, keeping pace. I didn't need them; there was nothing they could do to help me. This was my moment, and I intended to milk it for all it was worth.

Poo met me with a wide grin. As I walked I began to gather the village children and herd them up the hill. The boys and girls followed, chattering among themselves. I paused beneath a spreading palm. It took some gesturing on my part to get the group seated in a semicircle. Thirty to forty dirty children stared up at me, the quietest I'd ever seen them. One little girl still stood in front of me, so close I couldn't move without tripping over her.

I stared down at her. What on earth could her problem be? Didn't she see what the others were doing? She turned sober eyes on me.

“Ow.”

“Ow?” I wracked my brain, trying to convert the word to English.

“Ow,” the girl repeated. She looked at me and then looked down at her bare toes.

I followed her gaze and realized I was standing on her foot. “Oh. Sorry.” Mark one up for me —
ow
must be a universal expression of pain.

She hobbled over to sit down beside Poo. I took a deep breath and thought about how to begin. For the first time it occurred to me that my temper might have led me to start something I couldn't finish. But I banished the thought. A librarian could relate to children. It's what we do best. I held up the book, a story about a monkey that flies a kite.

I waved my hands, striving for order, which the children ignored. They jabbered among themselves like a flock of magpies, paying no attention to me. I slapped one hand against the book I held to get their attention. “All right, listen up. I'm going to tell you a
story
.” I mimicked words coming out of my mouth. I would have to use sign language, show the pictures, and act the story out. I could do that. It would be a matter of engaging them in the tale. My cup of tea.

“Our story today is about a little monkey named George.” I enunciated my words and pointed to the picture, but they looked as blank as a clean sheet of paper. Okay. A kite. How to make them understand “kite”?

I clapped my hands and then raised my arms, using both forefingers to draw a kite shape in the air.

Poo stared, forehead furrowed. She raised her arms and copied my movements. The rest of the children sat like lumps of coal, not responding. Except for those who outright scowled.

Okay, skip the part about the monkey's name, and the ball, and move to the bunny house. Remember the KISS approach: Keep It Simple, Stupid. I pushed out my lower lip, concentrating on the problem at hand.
A hut.
They'd understand a hut.

I pointed to the thatched dwellings, outlined a hut in the air. Eureka! They got it. I knelt in front of a pretend door to take out an imagined baby bunny.

That lost them. Their brows curled.

I hopped around the clearing on all fours. That proved to be a total waste of time. Okay. They didn't have bunnies in this part of the world. We'd go fishing.

I showed how George went fishing, using a make-believe rod to throw the hook in the water.

They shrank back, holding their hands in front of them to ward off a blow. Too late I realized they didn't use rods and reels to fish. They actually thought I was going to strike them.

I skipped the majority of the story and went straight to the kite incident. I sketched the kite in the air. This time two children — one of them the girl whose foot I had mashed — copied my motions.

Encouraged, I took the kite by its imaginary tail and placed it on the ground. Then I hunched over, trying to look like a monkey — which wasn't as hard as it might sound, judging from their expressions. Some were doubled up laughing.

I tried not to let their insensitivity bother me; they would come around soon enough. Even so, drastic methods were called for, so I got down on all fours, used one hand to indicate a long tail, and then pointed to the surrounding trees.

Comprehension dawned on a few faces. All right! Now we were getting somewhere!

I got to my feet and stood still for a moment, lower lip caught between my teeth, thinking. Then I bent over, picking up the imaginary kite. Facing them, I raised my arms and drew the kite symbol.

This time several of the group copied my movements. I pretended to reel out a length of string, and holding the pretend kite behind me, I ran across the clearing, looking back as the kite caught the wind, lifting into the sky. The motion was so real I could almost see that kite.

I ran back across the clearing, so wrapped up in acting out the story that I didn't see the twig jutting up from the ground. My right foot connected and down I went, slamming into the hard ground. The breath left my body in a resounding
oof.

I lay, waiting for the sudden rash of stars to subside before getting to my feet and facing my audience. Judging from the way they were shrieking with laughter, this was the high point of the story.

“The kite climbed higher and higher,” I wheezed. “Bill decided to bring it in because he needed to go home.”

I pantomimed reeling in a kite. “Oh no, it's caught in a tree! My fine new kite! Bill can't get his kite out of the tree!”

The children watched me, jabbering in that strange language among themselves and laughing, but not at the story.

They were laughing at me.

“George can get the kite.” I reached for a low branch. “He will climb the tree! No tree is too high for George!”

I pretended to pull myself up, branch by branch, until I reached the kite. Little by little I untangled it, telling the story as I went. The kite fluttered to the ground, and I became George again, picking up the kite, letting out the string as it went up. I ran back and forth across the clearing acting like this was so much fun!

The pretend kite jerked me off my feet and I rose with it, a difficult feat with my shoes firmly planted on soil. I threw my heart into the pantomime, leaping, looking around me wide-eyed and frightened, ducking at imaginary birds flying through the air with me.

The adult villagers, attracted by my antics, gathered around to watch. I flapped my hands at them. “Shoo. This is for children.”

They laughed and stayed where they were.

A chattering overhead caught my attention, and I looked up to see six monkeys sitting in the tree, staring at me like I was the funniest sight they'd ever seen.

I glanced back at the villagers and saw Sam standing with them, grinning and then outright hee-hawing at my bizarre antics. My glasses slid down my nose. My stomach roiled. I pushed the specs back up and looked at the laughing villagers, out-of-control children, chattering monkeys.

And Sam.

Okay. So much for group participation.

I slammed the book shut and faced the crowd. “The end.” I did a swift theatrical bow, then turned and, clutching the paperback to my chest, walked away.

Sam had laughed at me. He wasn't my Sam anymore. He'd turned into someone I didn't even know.

Someone I didn't care to know. At all.

EIGHTEEN

T
hat evening, I sat alone on the wooden platform, watching the sun drop behind the mountain range. A sultry breeze ruffled the water where the Millets and the Laskes were enjoying a dip. I watched the happy couples splashing around in the water, laughing and creating spouts with cupped thumb and fist. Were they brave or just stupid? Fish that could sting you and take your life lived in their pool. Did this not give them a moment's pause? Since my experience with Sam's manufactured bathtub, I'd stuck with sponge baths. Perhaps part of my inability to adjust had something to do with my longing for a private bath with hot and cold running water.

Sam came out of the hut. We had talked little over dinner. When he paused to admire the sunset, I noticed his forearms were still bright red. The dog incident couldn't have been fun for him no matter how temperate he appeared. My skin resembled a chicken that'd been roasted on a spit.

I thought about my performance with the village children today. Though my intentions were honorable, I had made a complete fool of myself. My emotions were a mass of snakes coiled in my stomach.

After this afternoon I was sure Sam had given up on wanting me to stay. A few more temper tantrums and I could forget about our relationship. Period.

I hadn't made him proud of late. Safety pins and drama performances hadn't done much to enhance my standing with either him or the missionaries.

I just have a question, God. Why did you send me all the way here to reinforce what I already knew? Why did you let me fall in love with Sam when you knew there would be problems we couldn't work out? I don't want to question your wisdom, but I'm so confused! I don't know what to do next.

The boards vibrated when footsteps approached. Sam. Part of me wanted to see him and part of me didn't. What did we have to say to each other?

Boards creaked. He paused beside me. “May I sit with you?”

I shrugged, not trusting my voice. He sat down beside me, cross-legged. He'd been around the villagers for so long the position seemed normal to him, like the way he'd bend his head and step over an imaginary threshold every time he entered the hut or clinic. I'd learned the hard way to duck — anyone with height whacked his head on the low beams.