“What were your objections?”
She tried reopening the notebook, fumbled with it for a second and spread it on her lap. Thumbing through the pages, Sister Marie Claire moved forward and then back, searching, the white pages covered in blue and black ink, the words blurred as she flipped through them, finally stopping, she began tracking again with her finger. She began reading. She stopped and said, “I listed the reason here before I wrote the bishop. Really, I knew Sister Mary Kathleen liked you, quite a bit. She admired your determination to follow through with your plan, to pay back a debt she knew you believed you owed. She admired your belief that you should help others. And I will tell you that her opinion means much to me. But I didn’t understand; I still do not. If you needed the money, or wanted to establish yourself as a pilot to start a business, I would have understood that. I was afraid that your motive was not strong enough, you would not be committed to the mission, that you would either leave soon after arriving or stay and not do the work.” Looking up from the page, her expression concerned and weary, she said, “I know you want to discuss this with me, help you make sense of your need and decisions. I’m afraid I’m not the person to help you. I do not want to lead you on falsely and I do not want to disappoint you. I will tell you this. I believe the work is what can carry you through each day in a place like Sudan. The work and your commitment to it. Do the work; the answer will come to you.”
Both his thumbs were pressed hard into the steering wheel. He wasn’t bothered by the revelation she opposed his coming to work at the mission. Hell, he’d been married and divorced; rejection was nothing new. What bothered him was the idea she might question his tenacity, which pissed him off. Letting the anger boil off, he said nothing.
He turned away from her to watch the road. Don’t worry, he thought, I’ll do the work.
***
Hanley sat in the old Land Rover, the morning sun now high overhead. Warm breezes blew in through the open windows. There was still a small crescent of mist in the upper corner of the windshield. Sister Marie Claire sat in an ancient Fiat, faded from red to rust, parked twenty feet away, talking to a man, his face obscured by the reflection of the sky on the windshield. She arranged for the meeting, she said, to pick up medicine. They were just outside the city of Juba.
Watching the cloud patterns moving across the Fiat’s windshield, seeing the gray smoke pattern, reminded him of spring days in Indiana when the damp air was just warm, a breeze, heated, carried the smells of the newness. That moment, when he realized it was happening, the smells, the warmth, it would catch him, stop him for an instant and he would smile at the realization. He could smell the newness here, at this moment, felt it, knew it but without the smile. He thought he gained some ground with her, made his feelings known. It would be hard, dealing with the nun. He knew that.
Hanley saw the nun’s hands moving, waving in animation, white birds fluttering about inside, between she and the man. She talked with her hands, he knew from their first conversation. Poor guy, Hanley said to himself. He wondered if the man had been through it before, dealing with her, perhaps talking about the children. That’s what this was all about he guessed; helping the children. He knew without being told, there had been many such meetings in the past, trips for medicine or supplies, meetings where more was exchanged than just water or aspirin. He wondered how many people were helping? There must be a fairly large network of those engaged, committed to the cause of these children. Who were they and how big is this group? Hanley realized he could spend all morning, guessing about Sister Marie Claire and her cause.
The dull click of a door handle being raised brought Hanley’s head up. He could see her face, still talking to the man, her foot outside the car and on the ground, the toe of her dirty shoe dug into the dirt. As she exited, bent, her head still inside, a hand on the door bracing her, a small brown paper bag in the hand, she said, “merci”, got out and closed the door behind her, all done in one fluid motion. Lithe is the word, he thought watching her walk to the Land Rover.
“Thank you for waiting,” she said, as she sat down, placing the small bag on the floor beneath her legs. Opening her notebook, Sister Marie Claire leafed back to the next available blank page and began writing in her small, neat script.
“Are those illegal drugs? Because, if they are, I’d like to know. If I’m embarking on a new career path, I’d like to remember the moment,” Hanley said.
“Yes, they are illegal in a way, but, sometimes it is necessary to apprehend drugs this way,” she explained.
“I’d stay away from the word apprehend. Obtain drugs in what way? What, exactly, is in the bag? Who do I need to worry about? Is there a Juba drug unit? I’m telling you, if we’re caught, I’ll cut a deal and give you up in a slim minute,” Hanley said, more exasperation in his voice than worry. He stared at the nun until she stopped scribbling.
“There are fifty, codeine-based pain pills in the bag. The man works at a medical clinic in Juba. He took them for me. No money is exchanged. It is done to help. Others at the clinic take medicine and sell it or take it themselves. He does not.
