Blessed Child (19 page)

Then with a smile Barbara averted their descent into hell.

Stewart grinned and Barbara chuckled.

“You see, a wise man knows everything; a shrewd one, everybody. I know you, Mother. You need sympathy as much as I.”

“Don't get a big head, Peter,” Barbara chided. “You think you know so much.” She was smiling wide now, and that was a good sign, because there really was no humor. Yes, it was heaven for sure.

Peter grinned, delighted with her. “I am not young enough to know everything,” he said. That one Stewart recognized as Oscar Wilde.

“No. Neither are you old enough to know half as much as you do.”

“Up to a certain point every man is what he thinks he is,” Peter returned.

“And what do you think you are, Peter?”

The grin suddenly faded from his son's face. He looked from one to the other as though lost. Not lost in a strange way, just lost in a ten-year-old-boy sort of way.

“What is it, Son?” Barbara asked.

Peter shifted his eyes and then lowered them to his pants. Stewart followed his son's gaze and saw the dark stain spreading on his jeans. It was the latest development in his disease, this lack of bladder control. By the look of it, Peter had refused his “idiotic” diapers again.

Stewart glanced at his wife and saw that she'd seen the accident. A look of empathy wrinkled the skin around her eyes.

Peter turned beet red. For a moment none of them spoke.

“Mom . . .”

“It's okay, dear,” Barbara said, standing. She ran her hand through his hair and kissed his head. “It's okay.”

A tear dribbled down Peter's cheek. He might be a genius, but he was still a ten-year-old boy who'd been through hell. And now in a moment of grace from heaven, this reminder that hell was still very much with them.

Peter slumped helpless in his bright blue wheelchair and fought a losing battle for his dignity.

For the millionth time in ten years Stewart swallowed hard, cursed the gods that had delivered this disease to them, and lifted his son from his wheelchair.

It was noon Monday when Jason whipped the Ford Bronco to the curb in front of Leiah's new apartment and shoved the gearshift into park. The windshield wipers jerked noisily against a light rain. He shifted the cell phone to his right ear.

“They can do that!? File a challenge!”

The World Relief director responded quickly. “Not a chance. My hands are tied on this one, Jason.”

“That's ridiculous! I don't care who the INS thinks they are; even they have checks and balances on things like this!”

“Maybe. But the INS got their orders from the National Security Administration. And you don't mess with them.”

“This is impossible!” Movement to his right caught his attention, and he turned to see Leiah running for the car with a hand lifted as if to fight off the rain. A ringing lingered in his head. He faced the windshield.

“So when? When is all this supposed to happen?”

“Twenty-four hours. Maybe a little longer.”

The passenger door opened and Leiah hopped in.

“Give me forty-eight.”

“Come on, Jason. You know I don't have any—”

“Just forty-eight hours. I'm telling you, John, there's more here than you think. We're talking about an innocent ten-year-old orphan here, not some terrorist.”

“And we're also talking the NSA here, not some family member who's debating custody.”

“Then just stall them. Pull in a favor. Anything. Look . . . please.”

“What's up?” Leiah demanded. Jason ignored her.

“I'll do what I can,” John said. “But trust me, it won't mean a thing. You've got twenty-four hours.”

“Call me if anything changes. You can do that, right?”

“Jason, what's going on?” Leiah cut in again. He stopped her with an open hand.

“Sure,” John said.

“Thank you.”

Jason heard the line click and he snapped the cell phone shut.

“What's—”

“They're deporting Caleb,” Jason said without turning.

The Bronco fell quiet except for the patter of rain on the shell. Leiah stared at him, not comprehending.

“Deporting? As in sending him back?”

“Yes.”

“That's impossible! They can't do that! He's a refugee!”

“Evidently the NSA seems to think he may pose a national security risk. They've ordered immigration to deport him.”

“Give me a break! He's a kid! It's Crandal, isn't it? This has something to do with the press conference.”

“Probably. And I'm not saying it's a good thing, but it's a problem we have to face.”

“Caleb's more than some
problem
we have to face! He's a lost child desperate for understanding. We can't let them take him away! You know as well as I do that he's not safe in Ethiopia. They tried to kill him once; you don't think they'll try again?”

Jason looked at her, suddenly angry. “You think I don't know that? I'm not the enemy here”—he jabbed out the window—“they are! I'm on Caleb's side, remember? Quit taking your frustration out on me!”

They locked stares.

Leiah's eyes misted and she looked away.

Jason immediately regretted his tone. He wanted to reach a hand to her shoulder and beg an apology. The bandana on her neck had slipped, and ugly scars rose above the white pullover she wore. A picture of scars covering her belly flashed through his mind and he swallowed.
Leiah, Leiah, what did you do to deserve such a tragedy?

It occurred to him again that she and the boy weren't so different. It was her unique connection to Caleb. She saw herself in him, and her frustration was perhaps as much for herself as for him.

But could
he,
Jason, love such a wounded spirit? He did love the boy. Maybe not in the same way as she, but he did love Caleb. And in a strange way, he cared for her as well.

To think of his caring in any other terms, especially ones laced with romance, felt wrong. Like an unspoken taboo. A perversion even. Heaven help him, but he could never yield to such an impossibility. She was out of reach. An untouchable.

He discarded his impulse to lay his hand on her shoulder.

“We should hear on the Temporary Restraining Order this afternoon,” he said.

She looked at him and gathered herself. “Of course that doesn't mean anything now, does it?”

He shrugged. “No. I guess it doesn't.”

“So why did you ask John for forty-eight hours?”

“I don't know. I don't like the idea of Caleb going back any more than you. I care for him too.” His words struck him and he turned from her.

The touch of her hand on his shoulder took him by surprise. Heat washed through his spine, and suddenly he was fighting tears. The madness of it all was catching him too, he thought.

“I'm sorry. I know you do,” she said.

Jason nodded and she removed her hand.

There was nothing to say. It was all ending. The government's most powerful hand had reached in and trumped them all. Nikolous, Donna, an unsuspecting national audience—they were all having the world's eighth wonder plucked from under their noses.

He slid the stick into drive and pulled the Bronco into the street. This visit with Caleb could be their last, a notion that resonated like a slanderous joke. He drove in an awkward silence.

The idea ignited in Jason's mind on the 210 on-ramp, like an unusually large burst at a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza. He even jerked the wheel enough to get a look from Leiah.

“What?”

He stared ahead, spinning the idea through his mind again. It was staring them down like a challenging bull.

“What?”

“Remember Elian Gonzalez?”

“The Cuban kid? Why?”

“What made the INS move so slowly in deporting him?”

She looked ahead. “The media?”

“Yes. The cameras. Or more to the point, his popularity.”

He ignored her stare and spoke his mind quickly. “What would the INS do if Caleb were a nationally known figure instead of a lost orphan?”

“I don't know—”

“They would back off! At least until they could explain themselves!”

“I thought the National Security Administration was pulling the strings.”

“Yes, but through the Immigration Service.” Jason powered the Bronco down the freeway seized by the simplicity of the idea. “It could work! Think about it.”

“I am and it scares me to death.”

“And the idea of him being hauled back to Ethiopia doesn't? Let's face it, he goes and he'll last a day if he's lucky. At least here he has us. He has you.”

“Okay. You're right. But Caleb isn't a national figure. And we've got what, twenty-four hours? How?”

They exchanged glances. “Nikolous?” she asked.

“Nikolous,” he said.

Jason pulled off the freeway and roared toward the Greek Orthodox church. He snatched up his cell phone with the intent to call the man. “You remember the office number?”

“No.”

He grunted and tossed the phone down.

“I don't know, Jason. Nikolous isn't exactly a friend.”

“He's crookeder than a saw blade. Granted. And he's a greedy slime-ball. Which is exactly why he'll be on our side.”

She was quiet for a moment. “So you're saying we join forces with the devil to save Caleb's soul.”

“I'm saying we do whatever we can to keep Caleb in the United States. Remember? Whatever is necessary? And unless you have a better idea, yes, siding with the devil fits my understanding of ‘whatever.'”

Leiah set her jaw and stared ahead, but she didn't object.

Jason dispensed with the parking routine and screeched to a halt before the double glass door that led to the Holy Ascension Greek Orthodox Church's office suites. He hurried Leiah through the doors and cut straight for the back offices without bothering a confused receptionist. He heard her “Excuse me, sir,” and ignored it as he turned the corner to Nikolous's grand suite. Leiah ran to catch him, ten feet behind when he rapped on the heavy oak door.

Jason pushed the door in without waiting for a response.

Father Nikolous sat behind his mammoth desk, his mustache down-turned and his hair slicked back in customary style. Martha, the wench who fancied herself an appropriate caretaker, sat in a Queen Anne chair opposite him, bulging at her seams. They both glared with steely stares. He would have expected a startled look, but their stone hearts were beyond the response, he thought wryly.

The thought strengthened his resolve. If they were going to dive in with the fellow, they might as well do it on their terms and win back a little ground.

“Well, well, the masters of the house are conspiring to wreck the world, is that it?”

They did not flinch. Neither saw his humor.

“Tell the lady to see to her daily beatings, Nikolous. We need to talk.”

“Don't be a fool,” Nikolous said. “Please leave. I'll be with you in due time.”

“I'm afraid due time won't do. We have a problem.”

“We all have our problems. Right now mine is your uninvited presence. If you do not—”

“They're deporting Caleb tomorrow,” Jason said.

That snatched the sound from the room.

Martha's left eyelid quivered and closed halfway, as if a nerve had shorted in her skull. The great black bags under Nikolous's eyes lifted and he squinted. This all for a brief second, and then they were staring at him again, unmoved.

“Leave us, Martha,” Nikolous said without turning to her.

She hefted herself up and frowned at Jason. The caretaker walked out only when Jason and Leiah stepped aside to avoid her ample frame.

Jason closed the door. “You find her at a Halloween party, Nikolous?”

The Greek ignored the comment. “Who says they're deporting the boy? Why haven't I been told?”

“You are being told. Frankly I don't think the responsible party wants you to know.”

“Tell me.”

Jason looked at Leiah and saw why the Father chose to avoid her stare; to say there was anger cast his way would trivialize her expression. She glanced at Jason as if to offer her agreement, and they sat in the two chairs facing his desk.

He told Nikolous of his conversation with John Gardner from World Relief, who called out of courtesy, only because he'd been incidentally informed by a friend at the INS that the deportation would go down. “So before you carry on with indignation, you should keep in mind that it's thanks to me you're learning of this at all.”

That seemed to temper the Greek long enough for Jason to explain that for all practical purposes, they were pretty much in a headlock. Caleb would be gone within twenty-four hours. Forty-eight if they were lucky.

Nikolous heard it all wearing his stately air of disapproval and then stood and walked for the window. He crossed his arms and stroked his mustache.

“There is one thing we might try,” Jason said.

Nikolous half turned and eyed him.

Jason could almost feel Leiah cringe beside him. “If we could get Caleb into the public eye, the INS might hesitate.”

Nikolous turned slowly and dropped his arms.

Jason continued. “It would have to be in a real big way, I think, but it would make them explain themselves.”

“And we have only forty-eight hours?”

“Or less.”

“The first meeting is not scheduled until Saturday,” Nikolous said.

“The first?” Leiah said.

Nikolous ignored her. “We would have to move it up.”

“And you'd need to have it well attended and well publicized. The networks would have to be persuaded to carry the event.”

“Tomorrow night?”

Jason nodded. Understanding lit the Greek's eyes. He was walking toward his phone already. Jason gave Leiah a reassuring smile. She managed to return it.