From my window, I can see a park, a small park, with some mature trees and a fountain, the water from the fountain’s spray turning blue and red in the sunlight, maybe green as well.
There are children there, small children with the mothers and grandparents. They seem happy, are safe, I think. I think about Sudan, dream about Sudan, always. I believe children are the reason we stay civilized. The park is pleasant. Watching it helps.
I may be leaving for Africa in June. The organization is still considering my request. I fear the events in Kosti are a problem. This has not been said to me, but I think they are hesitating. I have spoken to Sister Mary Kathleen. She has contacts who tell her the organization has received pressure from the Sudanese government to keep me out of the country.
Michael Campbell tells me the Beech has been returned to Kokomo. I was surprised to hear that Sophie flew with him. He said the trip took nine days, that the weather was good, the trip a pleasant one. Michael also said you are doing well, your health is good, but you are not involving yourself in your rehabilitation. This worries me. It worries everyone, he said. Your daughter asked him to intervene. He said he tried, but did not believe it was effective. I know this will not mean much, but please help yourself. You did so much to help others, do the same for yourself.
Not hearing from you worries me. I hope you are receiving these letters and reading them. Mary Kathleen said she has not spoken with you since the Christmas holiday. I will keep writing. I want to speak with you someday, maybe visit you in America. I want to see you again.
I will continue to write. Please be well.
Adieu,
Claire
***
The room was darkening as the sun sank below the tree line, settling into the cradle formed by the tree tops and the roof of his garage. Keeping the house dark suited him now. Weed, already asleep on the couch, snored and shook, dreamt of whatever old dogs dream. Rocky had just left, the cup of coffee she’d set before him still steaming, the too large white cup used so he would not struggle trying to get himself another, the cup dwarfing the small glass of neat whiskey, another chore done to prevent him any unnecessary movement. She left, after dinner, after cleaning up, after preparing him for the evening, the coffee, the whiskey, the remote, the dog walked, the kiss on the forehead. He thought he might be losing her, that she might already be gone. He couldn’t blame her if she was. She just hadn’t physically left him yet. That would come, he thought.
Elizabeth had finally moved out, not without a fight. Her new home, two miles away, on the edge of a beautiful old neighborhood, was within walking distance of a good elementary school. It was a smaller house than his, with a large back yard, big enough for an ever-scrambling four-year old and a large garden. Rocky helped Elizabeth lay out the plans, a plan similar to Rocky’s own.
It took him two months of constant arguing and insistence to wear Elizabeth down. It was the best decision for everyone. Hanley could not stand the idea of Elizabeth spending her life caring for him. The ground floor of his house was now his world. A former sitting room was now his bedroom, the bed low enough to allow him to roll from the chair to the bed. Two curved bars, inverted U’s, were bolted to the floor, allowing Hanley to pull himself up and into his chair. He hated all of it, every bit of it.
He would never get used to it, the confinement, the struggle. It took him no time to realize that ninety-nine percent of the people in wheelchairs were significantly tougher than he was. His days were now spent scheming his own demise and getting up the nerve to do it. It might happen. He wanted it to be as painless and mess-free as possible. If he did it, he would use pills and booze.
He didn’t regret Sudan. Focusing on the children was key, it made it all somewhat acceptable. Then there was Jumma. Nothing would ever help with that. He would never forget seeing the young African, face down in the dirt of the runway. He tried to forget Jumma, tried hard. Jumma would always be there and he did not want to live with that. Then there was the nun. But she was no longer a nun. She was again Claire Audebourg.
She sent four letters, he read only one, the first. After the third, he called Sister Mary Kathleen and implored her to intervene. The last letter came before she could stop it. It was still on the coffee table in the den, unopened. He couldn’t read it; wouldn’t.
He felt his hand nuzzled, the old dog demanding, in his insistent tired way, a late-night walk. Hanley wanted to walk too. There would be no more walks. Not anymore. But he no longer owed anyone anything, no more indebtedness. He owed himself one last thing.
***
The morning sunlight flickered in his eyes, strobed by the tree branches lining the road to the Russiaville Airport, still bare in the early spring, buds now appearing. Hanley raised his hand to shade his face from the blinding flash, trying to avoid a headache. Sitting in the front seat of Rocky’s Lexus, his legs were tied together with strips of cloth, wrangled to make it easier getting him in and out. As the car bumped along, Hanley heard the rattle and clang of his wheelchair in the trunk, an ultra-lightweight model, something that Rocky or Elizabeth could handle. That he needed a device light enough for a woman to carry angered him to the
