Blessed Child (7 page)

“Keep smiling, Roberts. I know it doesn't come natural, but humor me.”

“I'm smiling; I'm smiling. I heard from our people in Eritrea.”

Crandal turned to meet a reporter who had slipped past the line and ran to catch them. A security man was striding to intercept, but Crandal waved him off with a casual hand. It was Donna Blair, political correspondent for NBC, her trademark blue eyes smiling even now at twenty feet. The blond anchor-turned-correspondent did not possess the muscles required to frown, Roberts thought. The wind had disheveled her short hair, but the look only complemented her.

“No interviews, Donna. I thought I made that clear.” Crandal said it with a grin, but his voice carried a slight bite.

“Who said anything about an interview?” She pulled up and smiled pointedly, a gesture that made most men blink. “How does it feel to be ten points up on your opponent eight weeks before the election?”

“Sounds like a question to me.” Crandal paused, studying her. “Ten points, huh? Which poll?”

“Ours. And it's a word of congratulations, not a question. How about a sit-down in Los Angeles next week?”

“When?”

“Monday?”

“No, when was the poll taken?”

“Came out this morning, taken last night. How about Monday?”

“Come to the press conference Wednesday. I promise you I'll give you the leadoff.” He turned and strode for the limousine and then looked back. “And if you think ten points is something, stick around, honey. We're going to redefine blowout. You can quote me on that.”

Roberts's gaze lingered. Even the media in all of their supposed unbiased neutrality couldn't resist Crandal's charm. He stepped after the man quickly.

“And the report on Tempest?” Crandal asked.

They were alone now, with only the chauffeur in possible earshot. Roberts spoke quietly. “Like clockwork. The news has it as another African border skirmish, but the guerrillas penetrated all the way to Debra Damarro.”

“They find anything?”

“No.”

He paused. “The monastery?”

“Leveled.”

“No survivors?”

“No.”

“Good. Tell them not to get carried away over there.”

“There'll be the typical posturing for another month, but they've already started pulling back.”

“Good.” Crandal turned one last time and lifted his arms in his patented victory sign. “It's amazing what you can get away with when you have the power, isn't it?” The band was playing and the chants were still full on, but a fresh cheer rose above the din and Crandal smiled wide. He was getting to like the feel, and truth be told, Roberts wasn't hating it either.

“Yes, sir.”

Crandal suddenly thundered his war cry, startling Roberts beside him. “Power to the people.”

Yes indeed.
Power to the people
.

5

Day 0

T
HEY BROUGHT THE BOY INTO THE
U
NITED
S
TATES
on Saturday, flying American Airlines from London. The International Office of Migration arranged the short-notice tickets through regular evacuation agreements with the Peace Corps and the INS.

Late September in Southern California felt warm, considering the season. They rented a Yellow cab for the trip to Pasadena, where Jason would keep the boy until his processing Monday morning.

Caleb had hardly spoken since their departure from Ethiopia, and when he did, it was usually in Ge'ez, in an off-the-cuff reaction. He spoke a few times in Amharic in response to questions put to him in Jason's or Leiah's broken Amharic.

Approaching Addis Ababa near midnight Thursday, he had awoken from a long sleep and entered his first modern city. He had shaken his head repeatedly as if doing so would wake him from a dream. They had driven directly to Bole International Airport and caught a flight to London on Ethiopian Airlines at six Friday morning, but the few short hours in the large city, albeit Third World, were enough to send Caleb into a tailspin.

Watching the boy's unblinking stare as they wound their way through cluttered highways, Jason found it hard to imagine what it must be like, seeing for the first time such strange wonders. It gave the term
culture shock
new meaning. Leiah and he had agreed to let the boy discover the new world on his own, offering explanation only when he asked.

By the time they boarded the DC-9 that would take them to London, Caleb's stare had become glazed. His mind had retreated into some familiar place where things made sense. He slept most of the first leg. The London airport was his first exposure to mass modernization, and he took it in with a dumb stare. Even when Jason asked him what he thought of this new world, he said only,
“Dehan,”
nice, in a small, meek voice and looked around as if bored by it all.

The flight over the Atlantic and the United States on the Airbus was surprisingly quiet, and Caleb had slept through most of it. They exited the 210 freeway at 10:00 P.M. and pulled into Jason's driveway on Hollister ten minutes later. Fifty-four hours had expired since Father Matthew had rushed them out of his monastery.

Caleb was asleep and Jason carried him in without waking him. The house had sat empty for four years now, except for several short visits, and it smelled musty. But the linens were clean—he always left with freshly made beds in the event of his return. He walked down the hall and tucked the boy into the same bed his son had occupied seven years earlier.

When he returned to the living room, he found Leiah waiting by their duffle bags. During their layover in London she'd used most of her money to purchase Western clothes for her and the boy. When she'd approached Jason after changing in the airport, he'd hardly recognized her out of the tunic. The blue jeans she wore now fit her thin frame well. The turtleneck was maybe a bit warm for Los Angeles, but he understood why she would choose it. Either way she looked quite striking.

“Want a drink? I've got warm soda pop in the kitchen.”

Leiah smiled thinly. “I'll pass.” She opened the top of her duffle, pulled out Caleb's dirty tunic, and zipped the bag back up. She held up the tunic. “His possessions.” She tossed it to him. “That's all he has. You might want to give it a good wash. We should get him some more clothes as soon as possible.”

“Maybe I should burn it. Either way, it's a bit late for laundry, don't you think?”

“No, don't burn it. It's all he has from Ethiopia now. Wash it.”

Jason stepped down the hall, tossed the tunic into the laundry room, and walked to the kitchen. He flipped the refrigerator on and dug out a lukewarm Coke.

“You can sleep in the guesthouse out back until you leave Tuesday. It's not much, but it'll beat an Ethiopian shanty any day.”

“I still think he should go with me,” Leiah said. “The poor child's in shock. An orphanage will have no clue how to deal with someone in his shoes.”

Jason straddled a dining chair. “Like I said, his case has already been assured by World Relief 's Garden Grove office. We're restricted by the immigration laws, and in this case they've allowed him into the country with the understanding that he'll be in the custody of World Relief 's assignment. Don't worry; they're good people. We're not talking Oliver Twist here.”

“He's no ordinary refugee, and you know that. For starters, he's an orphan—”

“Which is why he's been assigned to an orphanage. One run by an Orthodox church, for that matter. John Gardner, the
director
of the World Relief office, assured me that he couldn't think of a better place for an orphan from an Ethiopian Orthodox monastery than in an orphanage run by a Greek Orthodox church. Orthodoxy has its similarities. It'll be good for the boy.”

“He's no ordinary orphan either. You see him, Jason. He's beyond himself. No orphanage could be prepared to handle a case like his. Can't we talk to the INS about transferring him into my personal care until we understand his needs better?”

“Send him to Canada? With someone who hasn't lived there for over five years? I don't think so. Besides, one of the reasons he's been granted Temporary Protective Status is because of the fact that he may have citizenship rights.”

“And while they're deciding his rights, he may very well lose himself. Have you considered that? You see him now and you see a cute little ten-year-old who makes you want to cry. But put him under the wrong care and he could snap. He's never seen the outside of a monastery until a couple days ago, for goodness' sake!”

“I know, Leiah!” Jason surprised himself with his tone. “I know. I like him too. But this isn't Ethiopia. We have laws. You can't just take the boy to Canada and adopt him.”

“I didn't suggest adopting him. We spend our lives helping people.” She stood and paced his beige carpet. “We sew up their wounds and try to keep them from starving; it's what we've given our lives to. So now we have a single boy who is desperate for help. How do we help him?”

“We help him by saving his life! We deliver him to the blessed United States of America in one piece. We give him the opportunity to live a life few can even dream about where he came from. What are you talking about? Don't turn him into your little pet, Leiah. You may feel all messed up limping back home, but that doesn't give you the right to use him as your sweet little bundle of validation.”

“How dare you say that!” She let the question ring through the room. “How dare you say that? You have no idea about me. You think that's all he is to me? Some teddy bear to keep me from crying at night? Who could make a comment like that?”

His ears were ringing and he suddenly felt hot. “Who? Someone who hasn't consigned themselves to hiding from the world.”

“And that would be me, right?” She spoke bitterly. “You see me as the poor burned nurse who has fled the world in shame? You, on the other hand, are the world's savior, rushing about tending to the less fortunate. Is that it?”

“I didn't say that.”

They sat quietly for a few moments. Jason shook his head, angry at their harsh words. She was a stubborn woman; that much had been obvious from the start. But in the three days he'd spent in Leiah's company, he had seen beyond the shell she wore and he knew a good heart when he saw one. Hers was better than good. It was an odd chemistry between them that allowed them to squabble like this, as though they had known each other all their lives and held no compunction in dumping their thoughts on one another.

“Maybe, just maybe the boy deserves better than either of us,” he said, and he knew it made no sense. “Either way, our hands are tied.”

She didn't respond, but neither did she break her glare.

“Look, the kid's going to the orphanage, and that's it. I'm an agriculturalist, for heaven's sake, not a nanny. I can't believe we're even having this conversation.”

“Excuse me.”

They both spun to the small voice at the same time. Caleb stood in the hall, staring at them with wide eyes. He was out of bed and he'd just spoken in English.

“Excuse me. Could you not speak so loudly, please?” he said.

With that the boy simply turned around, walked back down the hall, and disappeared into his room.

Jason stared after Caleb, stunned by his use of such clear English. He'd understood everything, then. Not just here, but in the Jeep and on the plane.

He turned to Leiah, who had fixed her jaw. She looked at him sternly, as if to say,
You see? And you want to throw him to the wolves?

“It's late; we're both tired,” Jason said. “We should get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry; I don't know why I said those things. I had no right.”

Her expression softened a little but not much. “Like you said, we're both tired.” It was all she offered.

Jason stood and retrieved a key from the wall. “I'll show you to your room.”

He led her out back to the detached garage he'd converted into a small guesthouse for his mother-in-law's extended stay after Stephen's birth. The main house was too small to share with in-laws for three months, he'd decided. That was before taking a pickax to the cement slab in the converted garage to make room for the bathroom's plumbing. Suffice it to say that the project had sharpened his use of profanity. After Ailsa's untimely departure from his life following little Stephen's death, he'd considered tearing the structure to the ground to rid his world of the lingering mother-in-law talcum-powder smell.

He pushed the door open and flipped on the light. “Like I said, it's not much, but it beats—”

“It's fine. Thank you.” She stepped past him and tossed her bag on the bed.

He wanted to tell her to lighten up and show a little appreciation, but it occurred to him that he wasn't exactly dealing from a position of strength here. Instead he offered a meek, “See you in the morning,” and closed the door without volunteering any further assistance. He wasn't sure if he'd left toilet paper in the bathroom; he would soon find out. Knowing her, she'd cross her legs till morning to make a point.

It was midnight when Jason climbed under the cool sheets he'd placed on the bed two years earlier. He turned off the familiar brass bedside lamp and smiled. It was good to be home, actually. He was getting used to sleeping alone and for the first time he could remember, he hadn't come home to a house full of memories. He had new challenges, of course—Caleb, Leiah— but he wasn't slumping through the house fuming at Ailsa, and that was something.

Yes, it was good to be home.

6

Day 1

J
ASON FELT A TUG AT HIS ARM
, and he rolled over with a grunt.

“Excuse me, please.”

The voice drifted through his mind with a distant familiarity. A voice calling from his dream.