“What is that?” Dr O’Connell said, looking up the road ahead. Lying by the roadside, Hanley saw a form, indistinguishable at that distance, looking like a mound of dirt, dark, but with something bright in its midst, maybe a scrap of paper or cloth, weeds surrounding whatever it was, making identification more difficult. As they approached, Hanley slowed the truck, stopping beside what now appeared to be a body. The two men looked at it for a moment, the sadness connecting them tangible like webbing strung between, spun by the spiders of conflict that haunted Sudan. O’Connell said, “Let’s take a look.”
Covered in a coarse, mud-red blanket, a single foot protruding from beneath it, was the body of a boy, maybe twelve years old, Hanley thought. He was mostly skin and bones, his face gaunt, eyes protruding, staring at whatever lay before him in whatever world he now found himself. “He’s still warm,” the doctor observed after touching his wrist, feeling for any sign of life. “I didn’t see him on the way into Rumbek this morning, did you?” Dr O’Connell asked Hanley.
“No, no, I didn’t. Maybe he and whomever he was with hid in the brush when he heard the truck coming. Perhaps he thought we were soldiers or Baggara.”
“Maybe. Will you open the back of the truck? We’ll at least see that he’s buried. We didn’t do anything else for him, now did we? We can at least do that.”
Hanley opened the rear door of the Land Cruiser, holding it while the doctor placed the boy’s body inside. Arranging the blanket so it completely covered the boy, Dr O’Connell stopped, laid a hand on the cloth covering the dead boy’s head and held it there for a moment. Then he turned to Hanley and said, “What he’s facing today must be better than what he faced yesterday.”
Hanley looked up and slammed the door closed.
***
“Jumma.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Could you come with me to the clinic? I want to store the medicine and the supplies Mr Martin brought from Nairobi. We are fortunate the people at the Nairobi Hospital are generous in response to our needs and requests. They understand how severe our situation is.”
Sister Marie Claire had found Jumma sitting alone in the dining hall at the main table, writing in his notebook with the black and white, speckled, hardboard cover. Now, with his head down, he continued to write as they spoke. Jumma said, “I think the people at the hospital in Nairobi may not be as good to us as you believe.”
“What do you mean, Jumma?”
“Last night, two of the doctors were talking about the supplies and just how much was brought back in Hanley’s airplane. One of them said he thought it was unusual, that is the word he used, ‘unusual’. The other doctor said he thought Hanley was buying extra supplies. I don’t know about this.” Jumma did not look up from his writing, which she knew he loved, and so she was not insulted.
“Jumma, are you certain that is what they said? I do not mean to doubt you, it is just that this is a serious allegation, one that I must look into. Our relationship with these hospitals is important to the mission. It has taken the church some time to develop these ties. Why would you tell me this if you knew I would talk to others about it?” she asked.
“Sister, I do not know why I told you. I should have known it would upset you and I do not want to do that. I could not prevent myself from telling you and I do not know why,” he said.
“Which doctors said this? Which doctors, Jumma?”
Two quick steps brought the nun to the table’s edge. Placing her hands flat on the table top, she leaned forward, pushing her words toward him. “Jumma, tell me which doctors.”
The young African stopped writing, twirled the pen in his fingers, his trouble drawn on his face, stopped twirling the pen, looked out the window in front of him and said, “Dr Milosiak, he said it.” Jumma closed the notebook and stood. Looking at the nun, he said, “Sister, I really don’t know about this. I heard the doctors talking, that’s all.”
Her jaw working back and forth, Sister Marie Claire stood up straight, turned and walked to the door. Without looking back, she asked, “Will you help me, Jumma?”
“Yes Sister.”
The clinic was crowded, a line forming at the door, ran across the open space to a tree, around the tree and toward the road. Three doctors and two nurses were providing care that day. To alleviate the crowding in the clinic itself, one doctor and a nurse were working the line, screening the people to prioritize the cases.
Sister Marie Claire walked fast, so fast, Jumma could barely keep up. She stopped by the tree, hoping to calm herself before reaching the
