“Tell me what you’re up to,” he said
“Up to? I do not understand. What is ‘up to’?” Arms crossed, Sister Marie Claire used her hands to warm her upper arms, rubbing them.
“You can’t be cold,” he said. “It’s a warm night.”
“It is a habit, that is all.” Standing up, she turned to him. “Let’s walk,” she said.
His steps felt uncertain, off-kilter, the drinking altering his balance, the ground now a tilting, moving surface, the tilts and moves subtle, shifting, not giving him a pattern he could work with, as if he could work with one. Summoning his concentration, trying to accumulate it somewhere between or behind his eyes, a pool of steadiness, like mercury in a sealed glass tube, countering the alcohol sloshing around in his head. He started feeling nauseous, a headache there for the taking, but he did not want it. Don’t throw up, he told himself.
Concentrating on the nun walking before him only made matters worse. Seasick in Sudan, he thought. For a second, he noticed how trim she was, felt guilty, then remembered he was close to drunk. “You look like a dancer, you know? And, you sing well. Really well. Ever think of going into show business? I mean, did you ever think of going into show business before you married God?” he asked. He was gushing about a nun. He would not open another bottle.
Turning quickly, she said, “You have had too much to drink. It is shameful.”
“Oh, come on. You’re from France, for God’s sake. You drink wine with your morning cereal. You let your kids drink wine at dinner. I think the word croissant means wine sponge or something like that, doesn’t it?” he said. The American stopped, closed his eyes, almost toppled over, reached out and felt her hand take his, steadying him as he opened his eyes.
“Be quiet. I’m going to tell you something, I don’t think you’ll remember it tomorrow, which may be why I am telling you. I pray this will not be a mistake,” she said, still holding his hand. Studying his face for a moment, Sister Marie Claire presented Hanley with a look of what he took for doubt, shook her head slightly and released his hand. Turning, she walked away, stopped, came back to him, looked in his eyes and frowned. Lips moving slightly, she past her hand over her face, as if wiping away moisture, as if someone had thrown water in her face, then looked away toward the bush, seeing something out there, something she worried about.
“I knew you would have questions. I watched as you watched Jumma and me, although I did not think you noticed me watching you. I heard you were asking questions of the doctors, questions about the children and the women, about the killings, the rapes, the abductions. After the girl was shot at the clinic, you began to wonder, I think. How could you not? It is understandable,” she said.
“Dr, Dyzak said there is a network, a network of people helping the children. Your network. He said it was your network. Is it?” Hanley asked.
“No.”
“Then whose is it?”
The lines around her mouth deepened with the frown that formed, the question bringing the response the American expected. He knew she was the driving force behind this network, how could she not be? The care and the commitment were there, he’d seen it, the tireless dedication, the years she’d given to this land and the people. Her faith was tempered by a pragmatism, a knowledge of what must be done, of how to get it done, who to trust, where to turn for favors, how to pay them back. The nun opened her mouth, then shut it. The air around them was chilling, not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to notice. Standing together near the edge of the compound, there was still enough light to see each other’s expression. Hers was uncertain, maybe wary; in the darkening evening, it was becoming hard to tell. “Tell me,” he said.
“I am not certain there is any wisdom to telling you something that may cause you problems, information you may not want to have in your possession. Does that make sense to you?” she asked. Hanley shook his head, the determination set hard in his face. Lowering her gaze to his chest, she sighed, saying, “No, I suppose that would make little sense to you now.”
“Just tell me this, at least. Are you simply monitoring these children, determining they’re alive so their families have hope, or are you actually trying to rescue them?” he asked.
“There have been a few rescues. Individual children taken from homes and from shops. Not many, as it is dangerous for the children rescued and unpleasant for those children left behind. Especially the girls left behind. We also are trying not to bring attention to ourselves, to protect the effort. If we are uncovered, the children will lose the only hope they have. Also, there are two of us from the church involved. Exposure would put the church and the bishop in a difficult position,” she said. He thought she looked forlorn in the dim light, her face carrying the worry for the children as they talked. This
