it must be very interesting.”
“Don’t mind the bullet hole. A minor accident. No one was hurt.”
“Hmm.” She bent to drag a dainty pink-tipped finger over a burn mark on the corner of the suitcase. It was a memento of a spirited argument around a campfire during which one of his companions had tried to throw both Adam and his luggage onto the pyre.
Mentally Adam renewed his vow to find another job. This one was just too hard on him.
Though he was tempted to encourage Cassia to mind her own business and get back to her apartment, it occurred to him that there was no casual inquisitiveness or recreational prying in her expression. She was genuinely interested. He could hardly fault her for asking questions, since he made a living doing the same thing. Her face was completely open and without guile, a quality so scarce he’d barely recognized it. Her loneliness and embarrassment were apparent. Adam prided himself on his ability to read people and their emotions. It was disconcerting to realize that, for this woman at least, he actually cared what she felt.
Touchy-feely he was not. Or hadn’t been…until recently. But despite the fleeting compassion he felt for Cassia, he was relieved when she finally backed through the doorway waving goodbye.
Man, oh, man, did he need a shower and a nap.
The little skeleton twitched as though it were still alive. It couldn’t be, of course. There was nothing left of the child but tissue-paper-thin skin stretched across an emaciated body. Its skull was too large for the wasted body and the eyelids, like bits of waxy paper, did not quite close, revealing slits of white fringed by sparse lashes.
Dazed and drunk with misery, Adam picked up the shovel and began to dig another grave. Surely he was hallucinating from heat and exertion. The eroded earth was hard and dry as chalk, over-grazed by cattle on this marginal land, leaving it unprotected and exposed to the elements.
He couldn’t go very deep with this one. Taking off his brimmed canvas hat, he wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. He tasted the saltiness of his lips and felt the visibly shimmering heat embracing him. His water bottle was back in the tent and his tongue was growing thick and parched. He’d have to get this done soon and go back to rehydrate. There weren’t many good-sized rocks in this area either. Not enough to cover a grave. He’d used them all for the others. Perhaps there weren’t enough rocks and dirt in Burundi to cover all the dead bodies. Even though there’d been a tenuous peace in Africa’s Great Lakes Region since the end of the civil war, famine was just as efficient at eradicating life as war had been. Sadly, it took the infants and children first.
He did the best he could, scratching out a shallow hole in the hard earth before turning to pick up the tiny carcass he’d come to bury. He cradled the frail frame in his arms for just a moment. It was like holding a cluster of pencils—tiny sticks of arms and legs, limp and nearly weightless….
Adam heard himself scream as the fragile form moved in his arms. Eyes, large and dark as black holes in a distant universe, opened to stare at him.
“You’re dead! Dead!” Adam shouted. But the baby wasn’t dead, not quite. The eyes stared at him accusingly, as if he were the one responsible for its suffering.
At least he could wake himself up from these dreams, Adam thought, taking deep breaths. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, shivering and damp from head to toe with sweat and nerves, a sheen of perspiration glistening across his pectorals and the soft, dark furring of his chest. He worked his jaw and willed himself to relax. His pajama bottoms rode low on his hips, and he felt a rivulet of sweat pouring down his backbone to soak the elastic at his waist. As he stood at the kitchen sink slugging back glasses of ice water, he began to shiver. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he had the shaking, chills, muscle aches and exhaustion of malaria. He would have traded the dreams that haunted him for malaria any day. From this side of sleep, a nap no longer seemed such a good idea.
Groping toward the shower, he stumbled over Pepto, who had stationed himself in the hall in front of the bedroom door. The cat who, abused as a kitten, could be provoked into a frenzy at the sight of anything closely resembling a human attack, didn’t even flinch. Even Pepto, the most self-absorbed creature ever born, sensed that Adam had reached his limit.
As Adam stood in the shower, welcoming the sharp pinpricks of water on his body, he wondered anew when…if…the dreams would ever stop.
CHAPTER 4
Kiwi is God’s way of cracking a joke.
I peeled another of the hairy little critters, sliced the bright green flesh dotted with its circle of black seeds and added it into my developing fruit salad, to be tossed in a concoction of cottage cheese, black persimmon pulp and honey. The recipe sounds pretty scary, but sometimes it’s good to live on the edge.
Cooking helps me ease the loneliness I’ve been feeling.
I went to church this morning, and came back reluctantly to my empty apartment. I’m “church shopping,” going in ever and ever bigger concentric circles in the area of my apartment. I’ve been praying that the Holy Spirit will give me a big “thumbs up” sign when I find my church home.
The phone rang. I checked caller ID to make sure it wasn’t Ken again. Sometimes I’m just not up to being loved by him.
“Hi, Grandma?” I took the phone into the living room and sprawled across the couch I’d borrowed from Jane. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I called to ask you, my dear.” Grandma Mattie’s voice was robust and cheerful. I couldn’t help but smile just hearing her.
“I went to the market yesterday.”
“My, my, now what?”
I suppose she has a right to be apprehensive. I’ve been going a little overboard at grocery and specialty stores. For me, unfortunately, everything from canned rattlesnake to sushi tastes like chicken.
“Black persimmons—‘chocolate pudding fruit’? How could I resist?”
“It would have taken a saint, I’m sure,” Grandma said tranquilly. “I’ve heard that grocery stores and Laundromats are wonderful places to meet men—so clean and wholesome. And men who shop and do laundry at night obviously aren’t frequenting nightclubs….”
Visions of men too ashamed to show their dirty underwear by light of day invaded my thoughts. Ewww. “Grandma, have you been talking to Jane?”
“Your sister thinks you’re lonely.”
“My sister thinks a lot of things. That doesn’t make them all true. She’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“That’s where her nose has always been,” Grandma Mattie agreed cheerfully. “Are you lonely?”
There’s no use beating around the bush with Mattie. “A little. The people at work are great, but they live all over the city and none near me. My apartment building is quieter than I’d expected. In fact, I didn’t meet any of my neighbors until today…and I managed to make a royal fool of myself, too.”
“Oh?” Mattie can pack volumes into a single “Oh?”
“I didn’t expect the
