***
Beans, again. These were yellow-green, ugly in a threatening, you-may-be-poisoned kind of way, with a spot here and there on their, shriveled skin. They were long, curved, like a string bean, only thinner, like the people they failed to nourish. In an oily broth, they appeared to have been a culinary afterthought. “We should let Jumma cook”, he said aloud. No one heard. But it was something. As tired as he was of eating some type of bean almost every night for dinner, Hanley knew he was lucky to have anything to eat at all. Sudan had taken over fifteen pounds off him. Using his pocket knife, he added holes to his belts and lived with the bunched waistbands of his pants. Any joy he had from his new thinness was measured against the realization millions of Africans would have welcomed any body fat at all. Africa is crazy, he thought.
He arrived at the dining room early with a letter from Elizabeth. Her divorce was slow, with her husband, Gary, dragging his feet throughout the process. After an initial meeting with Hanley’s attorneys who were representing Elizabeth, Gary agreed to everything. Hanley thought Gary might be hostile to the attorneys but wasn’t, they reported. Elizabeth would share custodial rights of his daughter with her husband and agreed to the proposed visitation schedule. Hanley knew Gary’s protestations were mostly a show for his own parents, demonstrating he could stand up to his wife and his father-in-law. But then Gary demanded more time to review the documents, asking for numerous adjustments and corrections. Now, the final date for the divorce decree was set. His daughter would be free of her husband by the first of November. She was already living in Hanley’s house in Kokomo with Carrie and his old dog. Rocky’s last letter said all seemed well, except that Carrie and Weed were not exactly pleased to be living together. Rocky told Hanley that she truly believed Elizabeth was more concerned for the dog’s safety than that of his granddaughter. He supposed she was right. Rocky wrote every week, but the letters came to Hanley in clumps, sometimes up to a month late.
The letters were treasures to him now. Sudan proved their value, enhanced it, made him reassess, see and admit the mistake of his prior complacency. Even the fights with his ex-wife now had a nostalgia he would have laughed at a year ago. And Sudan changed flying for him and the change was saddening. The change brought a new depth to the feelings of doubt over his decision to come to Africa. Flying now had the feel that handling a gun always gave him. Guns were too unpredictable for him, too much to go wrong with too much ease. Friends of his who used guns were amused that he would consider a gun more hazardous than an old plane.
The letter had the news of his daughter’s plans to redecorate his home. She also announced her plan to enlarge the garden areas in both the front and back yards. Rocky was acting as a consultant to her former gardening pupil. With the money at their disposal, Hanley knew the effort would someday be spectacular or as spectacular as ornamental plants could be. At the end of the letter, Elizabeth again implored her father to come home, to tell the church he must leave, that his daughter and granddaughter needed him in Indiana. Maybe I should, he thought.
Father Robineau came into the dining room, his white shirt stained brown in spots from his sweat and the African dust. With him was a new Slovakian doctor Hanley met two days before, a short and plump young man with a head of thick, black hair. His pale face was cradled by a heavy dark stubble. He had, Hanley thought, the palest eyes he had ever seen, like ice over blue water. Seeing Hanley, the priest said, “Ah, Hanley, the young doctor thinks we should find the land and build a new city to house those fleeing Darfur. He believes there are enough humanitarians to support such a project. What do you think?”
“All good ideas are proven wrong over time. In America, the land of the good idea, we allow our politicians to prove that theory over and over again, which they do. The same goes for humanitarians, but the ratio is much smaller. I think one politician cancels out hundreds of caring individuals.” Hanley said.
“Are all Americans this cynical?” asked the doctor.
“No, most are just smart-asses. They’re usually younger. In my country, cynics are just smart-asses with some age on them,” Hanley explained. “How long before you leave us Father?”
“Maybe three more weeks; at my age it would seem to be a short time, but in Africa, it’s perilously far off.”
Through the window, Hanley saw Sister Marie Claire approaching the dining hall. Always a fast walker, her pace was almost furious and raised small dust clouds as she crossed the barren yard. With her head still down, she rushed through the door and to the table where the doctor, the priest and the American sat. Stopping next to the chair of the American, she said, “Forgive me for interrupting, but I need to speak to Monsieur Martin for a moment.” The priest smiled and shrugged. The nun turned and walked away, heading for the door. Hanley rose and followed her out into the evening light, the air cooling, but still warm. Smoke and dust blew past as Hanley jogged a bit to catch up. The nun said, “I need to tell you something and then ask a question. I could not do this with Father Robineau there. It is better that we discuss this alone.”
“I see. You need to give up this idea that someday, I’ll run away to Paris with you. I believe the man you’re married to would send me straight to Hell, although I probably shouldn’t let that concern me as
