It had not occurred to Hanley that the child might be sick.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?”
“Or something? Right now, it’s not a concern, at least not for me. He comes from a family where there is leprosy; his grandmother. She has been caring for him for the past three months, since his mother was killed by the Janjaweed. His aunt brought him to us because she could not care for him or did not want to. It should matter but it doesn’t. He’s been here for almost a month. I don’t think it’s a threat to me. His bathwater contains an antibacterial solution. His aunt said the grandmother covered her mouth and hands with cloths when she handled him. She boiled the cloths each night. It wasn’t enough. I didn’t say that right, did I?”
“Sounded right to me. I have to say that I admire your courage; or your commitment. The work being done here is truly amazing.” Hanley’s appreciation was genuine.
“My courage is nothing compared to the courage of the people here. I have no courage. Their lives have been turned into a hell on earth. They face constant persecution and starvation. Many Europeans and Americans could not comprehend what these people face almost every day of their lives. They are being chased from this land in the name of a god that must cry or scream at what’s being done here, at the cruelty.”
As she spoke, her voice grew louder with a deepening intensity. Suddenly, the baby in her arms began crying, a sudden, loud wail of fright. Sister Marie Claire stopped and began to whisper to the child, gently rocking him back and forth. The baby’s scream turned to sobbing as the nun comforted the child. She put the boy to her shoulder and stood, walking back and forth beside the stool. As she stood, the wet towel fell to the ground and she kicked it away as she walked. Hanley moved to where she had been and picked the towel up at its edge with two fingers. He laid it across the stool and said, “When was the last time you wrote to Sister Mary Kathleen? She always complained that you didn’t write often enough. That seems to be a common complaint of the people with friends and relatives working here.”
“Wait and you will see. Time to write does not come often. I hear Jumma’s been assigned to help you become acquainted with the mission and the area. He’s a good one to have for that. He’s one of the brightest we have taken in. I have much hope for him, but schooling is difficult. Money is always an issue and a position for non-Muslims at the university is difficult,” she said.
With the boy now quiet, his head resting on her shoulder, the nun, turned to Hanley and asked, “Will you carry the stool and the bucket back to the clinic for me?” She leaned and retrieved the wet towel, then walked with quick strides to the open end of the ruined building. “Just pour the water out on the ground.” She instructed and went toward the clinic.
Doing as he was asked, Hanley dumped the bucket and took both it and the stool as he followed the nun to the cement block building. She already disappeared through a door near the end. The sound of children crying had been a faint noise behind their conversation, registering a mild discord as they became acquainted. Entering the clinic, the dismay and fear of children being ministered to surrounded him, their sounds again reminding him of his granddaughter. A nurse was taking the child from Sister Marie Claire, who removed her gloves and washed her hands in a nearby sink, then turned to her next patient, a girl of either fifteen or sixteen years. The nun held the girl’s face in both hands and asked her something in a language Hanley did not recognize. A frightened look was the response, with eyes wide and uncertain, her face dark and thin, with high, pronounced cheek bones and a thin, straight nose. Hanley thought her features had the echo of some other heritage. Small straight scars were visible on both cheeks. Her hair was cropped short. Keeping a hand to the girl’s face Sister Marie Claire reached into a pocket of her dress and produced a small light, the kind used when examining patients or searching for car keys inside a jumbled purse. The nun asked another nurse, the African, for something in the same language that Hanley could not understand. She shined the light into the girls’ eyes, then her ears and finally her mouth. The other nurse came with a long swab, the end of which was soaked in something orange and swabbed the girl’s throat. Throughout the process, the girl appeared scared, despite the nun’s attempts to comfort her. She only relaxed when she was told she could get down from the stool. She smiled somewhat uncertainly but her face did not relax. Hanley watched the nun write a note on a form clamped to a clipboard. She hung the board on a small brass hook screwed into the end of a long table. Hanley looked at the counter top, saw very few supplies, saw the despair in the wanting. He was surprised by his reaction. Whenever he had seen a doctor, he always took note of the amount of supplies kept in the examining room. Open cardboard boxes always dripped latex gloves onto the counter, antiseptic wipes wrapped in small packets strewn about and tongue depressors, striking in their uniform perfection, held by the dozens in large glass jars. Here, there was no such excess. Only a cloudy drinking glass with three tongue depressors propped up on the side, waiting in loneliness for replacements next to a box of tissues. Hanley hoped the
