the question. Maybe he got scared, or he was digging around, robbing me, or he planned the whole thing. Clay and Justin vouched for him. Two days later they were all gone.”
Steve walked me back out, through the gate, his hands in his pockets.
“I’ve decided to take that wall with me,” he said. “I read it’s sometimes done in Italy with ancient frescoes. I’m going home. I’ll ship it out when I leave.”
“Where’s home?”
He sighed. “I don’t quite know yet.”
At the taxi, I thanked him for talking to me.
“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked.
“I have a flight tomorrow.”
He shrugged and opened the taxi door for me.
“One more thing,” he said.
I was halfway seated and twisted my neck to look up.
“Tell Frank to keep his mouth shut.”
JUSTIN
FRIDAY HAD BEEN quiet. Justin’s voice was still hoarse, but slightly better. That evening, he opened his notepad and entered the number in his cell, under Clay Hervey, making himself feel as if they’d seen each other recently. Then he went to the office to talk to Frank.
Frank turned from his laptop, swiveling in his chair. He threw one meager leg over the other, leaned back, pulled off his glasses, and picked up a tumbler of auburn liquid.
Come on in. You’ve caught me enjoying my Friday bourbon. My guts can’t take it, but a man needs a holiday even if it hurts.
I wanted to talk to you about Idris. He told me he’s worried he won’t get a scholarship.
You pick one kid, Frank said, and it’s favoritism. Then the others want to know why you didn’t choose them.
But you pick kids all the time.
They pick themselves. I just do the paperwork.
What do you have against Idris?
Nothing, aside from his arrogance. He’s not ready.
When will he be ready?
When he does the work without acting like he’s owed something.
You’re being unfair.
Nonsense. Idris has work to do before we can discuss scholarships. Our school is for those who help themselves. That’s our motto. Leaders don’t go asking for handouts. They fight their way to the top. And — let me finish here, save your voice — I’ve seen boys like Idris a hundred times. You get a thick skin. When I first came here nine years ago —
I was reading online, Justin interrupted, about funding for schools through the US and Afghan governments. If we set up a certificate program, we can apply and —
And this place will be just another school churning out kids who are going through the motions. I set out to build something different. I’m not going to throw that away.
This is a fiefdom, Justin said.
A what?
I mean —
I know what you mean. Hell, you sure know how to treat a man on his night off. Thanks for reminding me why I got divorced. At least I have that to feel good about.
Who are you evaluating for scholarships? Justin asked, his voice raw again.
Most likely Sediqa.
Idris’s English is perfect. He’s taken every class here. And he —
I’ll tell you what he did. He told you his story. That he runs all my errands and —
Are you educating people or training drivers?
We’ve got a tight budget. He’s studying here for free —
So are the girls.
They’re catching up from a lifetime of being held back. Frank waved his battered glasses. The only way to change the world is to find those who want to change themselves. You can inspire people, but you can’t fix them. Right now, my priority is female role models. Inspiration for the girls. As for Idris, you’ll see — it’s not the men who are ready to change.
Justin pressed on, arguing that he was the academic director now and should have a say in who received the scholarship.
Fine then, Frank said, and he almost seemed to smile. I’ll give you the list of scholarship candidates and their situations, and you can choose the most deserving person.
Justin was so startled by the sudden concession that it took him a moment to agree. Frank tipped his head forward, the way a king might, granting permission to leave.
Justin went downstairs, outside into the driveway where the Corolla was parked, and let himself out the metal door, into the street. The cold circled his wrists and throat. Here and there, the lights in compounds radiated up — luminous pedestals lifting the dull mass of the sky.
His exultation instilled him with courage. He took a step, the mud squelching. He paused, listened, took two steps, then three. He was moving the way a reptile or a rat might: stopping to take stock of danger. He reached the end of the lane. Far away, on the unfinished highway, passing vehicles lifted dust that rose in the breeze and fell like a slow surf. The bulk of the city lay beyond, its radiance amplified in the particulate air.
He’d known that a new beginning wouldn’t be easy, but now he felt confident. It was time to make peace.
He held his phone, its LCD a dingy jewel. His thumb lingered over the call button. He composed a text instead.
Clay, this is Justin Falker. I’m in Kabul. Your mother gave me your number. Let me know if you’re free to meet.
LOUISIANA: DECEMBER 1999–NOVEMBER 2001
JUSTIN
THE FIRST TIME he heard about the family, he had an impression of a story from his English class or something he’d seen on TV, about desperate, wandering people, and he was surprised that such characters might actually exist.
They’ve been living in a motel near the overpass, his father said. The brown one. Right after the exit ramp. They spent Christmas there. I told them they can move in on the first.
Justin was reading on the couch, and in the kitchen, his mother asked, Why not sooner? The carriage house is empty.
I’ve
