meeting a Somali family at the airport at ten, she had to fill out status reports on two groups of Burmese immigrants brought in by Refugee Hope. They had landed in St. Louis the week before. Ragged, little more than skin and bones, they had stared at her with gaunt faces and milky eyes. At the sight of an energetic white woman with a mass of brunette curls, the children clung to each other. Their parents couldn’t quite muster a smile at having finally arrived in America, the land of their dreams.
With a sigh, Liz shook her head.
“Incoming!” Her closest friend at the agency breezed past the small cubicle. Molly stuck a thumb behind her to indicate the cluster of people headed Liz’s way. “They’re all yours!”
Molly loved mornings.
Liz groaned and reached for her flask of hot tea. Before work, she always steeped a pot of the strongest black tea on the market. The first cup opened her eyes. The second turned on her brain. With the third, she usually had the gumption to say—
“No.” Holding up a palm, Liz rose from her chair before the newcomers could step into her cubicle. “I don’t know who sent you here, but you have the wrong office.”
“No?” A tall man with close-cropped brown hair stepped around the collection of bewildered Africans. His dark eyebrows narrowed. “Did you say no?”
“I’m sorry, but this is not one of my families.” She met his blue eyes. Deep navy with white flecks, they stared straight into her.
Why hadn’t she started that third cup on the drive to work?
“I know my own people,” she informed him. “This group doesn’t belong to me. If you’ll go back to the front office—”
“The front office sent us to you.” Gaze unwavering, he stuck out a hand. “Sergeant Joshua Duff, U. S. Marine Corps. And you are?”
“Liz.” She grasped the hand. His warm fingers curled around her palm, crushing her knuckles together. She caught her breath. “Liz Wallace.”
“A Scot. I’m Irish.”
“American, actually.” She pulled her hand away and stuck it in the pocket of her slacks. “So, Semper Fi and all that. I appreciate the interest you’ve taken in these people, Sergeant, but Refugee Hope is accountable only for the families we relocate. If you’re responsible for this group, you’ll have to—”
“Semper Fi and all that?” He leaned forward, as if he weren’t sure he heard her correctly.
Oh, great, Liz thought. She picked up her flask, unscrewed the lid and poured the third cup. Praying he couldn’t see her hand trembling, she lifted the mug to her lips. The tea slid down her throat.
This was not what she needed a few minutes after eight in the morning. Not an overwhelming, overbearing, overly handsome sergeant with a death grip. And certainly not a pair of striking blue eyes that never seemed to blink.
“Sergeant Duff.” She found a smile and hoped it looked sincere. “Please forgive my lack of courtesy. I have a large number of families in my caseload. An overwhelming number. This group isn’t among them.”
With effort, she dragged her focus from the man’s sculpted cheekbones and clean-shaven square jaw. The group huddled under his protection shrank into each other as she assessed them. A man, midforties, she guessed. His wife, hard to tell her age behind those big glasses, clearly traumatized. Two children. The girl, about seven, needing new clothes. The boy, probably five, missing several front teeth.
“This is Reverend Stephen Rudi,” Sergeant Duff said, clamping his big hand on the man’s shoulder. “His wife, Mary. Their children, Charity and Virtue. They’re from Paganda.”
Paganda. Images flashed into Liz’s mind. Photographs she’d seen. Villages burning. Mass graves. Boy soldiers toting machine guns. She thought of the people she had met in Congo. They spoke of Paganda in hushed tones. Even worse than most places, they said. Genocide. A bloodbath.
Liz shuddered and sized up the little family more closely. Who knew what these people had endured? Too often these days, she caught herself regarding the refugees as line items on one of her many lists. Family from Burundi: mother, father, eight children. Family from Bosnia: mother, her brother, four children. Family from Ivory Coast: mother (pregnant), father, six children.
When had they ceased to be human beings?
“Reverend Rudi, good morning.” Liz offered her welcome in the African way—right hand extended, left hand placed on the opposite arm near the crook of the elbow. A demonstration of honor, as if to say, “I will not greet you with one hand and stab you with the other.”
The man stepped forward, shook her hand and made a little bow. “Good morning, madam. Thank you very much for your time. My family is in great need of assistance.”
How often had she heard these words, Liz wondered. The need was a pit, bottomless and gaping. A hungry mouth, never sated.
“Which agency brought you to St. Louis?” she asked him. It was a relief to turn her attention from Sergeant Duff. Like a male lion poised to spring, the man didn’t budge. His presence filled the cubicle with a sort of expectant energy Liz could hardly ignore.
Reverend Rudi’s voice was strained but warm, carrying familiar ministerial overtones. “Madam, Global Care brought my family from a refugee camp in Kenya. We traveled by airplane from Nairobi to Atlanta. My wife’s brother invited us to St. Louis.”
“Global Care doesn’t have an office here,” Duff inserted. “The Rudis will need your help.”
Liz returned her focus to his face. The man had moved closer to her desk now, his fingertips touching her stack of files, his shoulder tilted in her direction.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant. As I said before, if Refugee Hope didn’t bring this family to the States, we won’t be able to provide assistance. The Rudis need to contact Global Care in Atlanta and make arrangements.”
“But as you see, they’re here now. So what can you do for them?”
“Nothing. I’m authorized to work only with my families. Those brought in by Refugee Hope.”
“So transfer them.”
She studied the blue eyes. He really did expect her to obey. He thought she would capitulate right on the spot. The man was used to giving orders, and to having them followed.
Liz had never done well with authority figures. She simply didn’t buckle.
“If Global Care wants to make provisions for this family,” she informed him, “you will need to speak to someone at their headquarters in Atlanta. Refugee Hope is based in Washington, D. C. St. Louis is a resettlement point. We follow our agency’s rules.”
Joshua Duff straightened. His eyes narrowed. Then he turned to the family. “Pastor Stephen, how about you go find a snack machine and get the kids something to eat.”
He fished a wallet from his pocket. Liz tried not to gawk at an accordion of cash that unfolded when he opened it. He removed several bills and held them out. The African minister took the money with some reluctance. Duff misunderstood.
“Snack
