Jared laughed.
“We didn't mean to call her Mopsy,” said Mom. “It just happened. ‘Mopsy' is sort of from the word ‘moppet,' which means rag doll.”
“Which leads to ‘Muppet,'” said Jared. “Half puppet, half moppet. Like Sesame Street.”
“Is that where you live?” asked Mattu. “Do you grow the seed, the sesame?”
The van was silent. The Americans began to see just how much the Africans did not know.
Dad gave the whole sesame seed thing a pass. “We've left Kennedy Airport, and it hasn't been easy, since I kept missing the exit lane. But we are now on the highway and headed home.”
Mom swept her four guests with her wonderful smile. “You're here! You're really here. You made it!”
Tears slid down Celestine's face. Andre smiled tenderly at his wife and wiped them away. Not with his hand, because he didn't have one, but with the knob of his arm, hidden under the sleeve. Mopsy kind of wanted to see the chopped-off part and kind of didn't.
“Seat belts,” Mom reminded everybody.
Celestine reached around to fasten Andre's seat belt. Mopsy had an awful thought. If Andre's arms had been cut off, maybe Alake's tongue—
Mopsy decided not to go there.
Since Alake's hands lay in her lap as if they had been sewn down, Mopsy fixed Alake's seat belt. Alake did not react to having this white person lean over and cinch her in. I will save her, thought Mopsy. I will make everything better. She took Alake's cinnamon-colored fingers and curled them around her own.
Celestine said proudly, “This is the third time I have worn a seat belt.”
Mopsy and Jared exchanged looks, a rare event. They were always peeved on planes when the flight attendant wasted time describing how to snap the seat belt halves together when every single person on earth already knew.
Wrong.
Mattu did not seem to hear Jared's question about the boxes. “Are we close to the home in which you live?” he asked.
He had a sort of British library voice. What with that and his marathon-runner build and good looks, Jared bet every girl in high school would have a crush on Mattu by the end of the first week. “Nope. We have a three-hour drive. You landed in New York, but we actually live in the state of Connecticut.”
Mattu repeated the sentence carefully. “We actually live in the state of Connecticut.” His English was accurate and clear, a contrast with Celestine's muddy accent. It seemed odd that the son had a different accent from the parents.
The speechless girl was pretending to sleep, leaning against the window to keep Mopsy at bay. Then Jared remembered how long she'd been on the road. She wasn't pretending. She'd collapsed.
Mom was explaining the joy of scrapbooks to Celestine. “We want to document everything, because the church is so excited to have you. I'll make a souvenir book for you too, of course, and one day we'll look back and see exactly what it was like on the first day, and what we wore, and we'll share pictures with everybody and you can send them to friends already in America or friends you left behind.”
“We beg your pardon,” said Andre. “We will be grateful to be part of a church again. But no pictures.”
It was now hot in the van. Andre shrugged off his jacket. Jared could see one of the stumps. He had never seen an amputation. The violence of what had happened to Andre was visible right there on the rough, scarred stump.
Jared's mom tended to ignore opinions that were not hers. “We'll get you a cell phone. You can send photographs through your phone, you know.”
“I have never used a phone,” said Celestine.
Mopsy and Jared shared their second look. Somebody existed on earth who had never used a phone?
Mom whipped out her cell to give a lesson. Three out of four Africans leaned forward to learn. The speechless daughter, no surprise, wasn't interested in telephones. Jared took out his own cell to show Mattu what Mom was talking about. Jared called his mother in the front seat and three Africans burst into laughter when Mom and Jared chatted across the space of two car seats.
Jared photographed Mattu with his camera. Mattu saw his picture in the tiny phone and laughed delightedly.
“I can send this picture of you over the phone,” explained Jared, “or bring it up and look at it when I feel like it, or transfer it to my computer and print it out or send it to anyone in the world.”
Mattu's pleasure vanished. “Send it?” he repeated. The concept seemed to worry him. “Can it be made to disappear wholly?”
“Sure.” Jared deleted it. Mattu didn't relax. Jared shut the phone and put it in his pocket. Now Mattu relaxed.
He's not afraid of the photograph itself, thought Jared. He doesn't want a photograph to exist.
Come on. I have seriously been watching too much television.
The bouncy, bubbly American girl reminded Alake of her sister, except a different color. Alake had rarely seen people the color of these Americans. But people of any color meant little to her. Only the dream had meaning.
For a long time, Alake's sleep had been as light as gauze, protecting her from nothing. Inside the frail netting of this sleep was the dream, always the same dream. Alake slept, her head against the window of the van. Perhaps Mopsy's mention of sixth grade made the events in the dream start earlier than usual, because Alake too had been in sixth grade when it happened.
In the dream, Alake could hear laughter. There had been twenty-nine relatives living in her compound, and their servants, and various friends who had come to stay, and children who had been orphaned. Had they been happy enough to laugh on that day?
Alake and her sister had not yet left for school. Alake didn't know why that was. Her parents cared deeply about education, and the children were never allowed to be late or to miss a day of class. Perhaps her parents had known something was about to go wrong; perhaps they had been preparing to run but had begun too late. But then why were they laughing?
A voice pierced Alake's dream. “Look!” cried the American mother. “On your left! The skyline of New York!”
Alake woke. But she did not look. She did not know how to look anymore.
Mattu looked.
New York was exquisitely beautiful, outlined against a brilliant blue sky—and very far away. The van raced on. New York was already gone.
Mattu had experienced traffic. But there were more cars and trucks on this road than he had known existed in the world. They came at the van with such ferocity that he expected constant collisions. After a while he grasped that there was a cement wall between the van and the oncoming cars. The road also had side walls so that you could not just drive off. Mattu tried to estimate the distance of the walk back to New York. He had not yet seen anybody walking. In fact, there were no paths.
Throughout this fearsome trip, the boy and the girl peppered him with questions. Mattu envied Alake, who had already established that she wasn't answering. “It is difficult to speak of the past,” he kept saying.
The American boy talked of school.
Mattu had expected to hunt for a job, because that was the instruction in the manual that he and Celestine had taken turns reading during the long hours of flight: a job was the most important thing and must be gotten right away or Americans would lose respect for you. He had no idea what kind of job he could do and could not picture how he would live—what sort of building he'd live in; what sort of food he'd eat. It had not occurred to him that instead of working, he might be allowed to attend school. Jared's descriptions were intoxicating. Books and learning, teachers and computers, sports and friends, food and games. Jared had a used laptop that would now be Mattu's.
Mattu knew what computers were, but he had never touched one. He knew what a lap was, but not what it had to do with computers. He tried not to ask, because the answer would be too tempting, and he must not be tempted; he had another assignment to complete; but he said, “What is a laptop?”
Mattu drank in Jared's words. He, Mattu, now owned this? The American boy de
scribed an amazing bedroom in which they would have their own television and movies and music. Mattu could not help asking more about the school and the bedroom.
A police car raced by, siren shrieking and lights whirling. Jared did not even notice. Mattu could not fathom being so unaware of armed men. He prayed for the person they planned to kill.
The ride went on and on, the little girl demanding answers and Andre and Celestine responding.
The American father, Drew, cleared his throat. “Now, I know you all expected a place of your own, and we expected that too, but it didn't work out. For the first few weeks, you'll be living with us.”
The American mother, Kara, beamed, which seemed to be her usual manner. “Celestine and Andre, you will have your own bedroom and bath. Mattu, you'll share Jared's room and bath, and Alake, you'll share Mopsy's. We'll cook meals together and learn how to run a household together. I think in the end we'll be glad it worked out this way, because we'll get to know each other so well.”
Mattu prayed that they would not, in fact, get to know each other so well.
The van left the remarkable walled road, and at last they were in America itself, among houses and people and stores. There were countless trees without leaves and lines of pretty stone walls that did not seem to enclose or achieve anything. All the roads were paved. All the houses were perfect.
Mattu tried to keep track of the route so he could get back to New York, but the van turned, waited at traffic lights, climbed hills and went over small bridges. Mattu thought: No one can find us here.
The four of them had not been interviewed, of course, but everybody knew how the Refugee Aid Society ended every session by saying, “In America, you will be safe.”
Nobody believed that, but they went along with it, because they had to play their parts.
Now Mattu thought, Could it be true?
Could I be safe in America?
MOPSY COULD HARDLY WAIT TO get home. From now on, her house would be packed with people coming and going, dropping off casseroles and desserts, helping drive the Amabos wherever they needed to go and discussing unplanned stuff like Andre's failure to have hands and Alake's failure to have speech.
At last Mopsy's father drove up Prospect Hill. It was so steep and the wind at the top was so fierce that even though the town had been settled in 1660, no one had built there for centuries. Then, a few years ago, a developer put in a long switchback road, and now the hill sported eight homes with big garages and fabulous views of the waters of Long Island Sound. Instead of grass, their yards had rocks, mountain laurel and poison ivy. Mopsy reminded herself to explain poison ivy to the Africans.
Signs were tacked to a row of telephone poles: welcome amabo family! we're glad you're here!
Celestine and Andre read each of these aloud. Mopsy loved how surprised they were. And then, to her utter delight, not only were her driveway and yard full of friends and church family, but the local TV station had come! Everything counted more once it was on TV, and it was so fun to get credit for stuff.
But Andre cried out, “No! No pictures. I cannot get out of the van.”
Mopsy's heart sank. Andre was right. TV would totally love zooming in on Andre's chopped-off arms. They'd pretend to be all compassionate and everything, but really, they'd feast on his suffering.
Dr. Nickerson came trotting over. He was a nice guy who gave short sermons, which Mopsy's father always appreciated, and he was also a runner, so you were always seeing him loping down some sidewalk. Mopsy opened the sliding door of the van. “Hi, Dr. Nickerson!” she yelled.
The Africans pressed up against the far windows as if the minister were spreading disease.
“No cameras, Pete,” said Dad. “I don't know if it's a cultural thing or what.”
Dr. Nickerson looked as if he had been slugged. His smile vanished and his face grew lined.
Mopsy had forgotten. This very same TV station and both of the local newspapers had gleefully covered Brady Wall's theft. They did not tire of stating that in organized religion, either priests were out there touching little boys or deacons were out there stealing donations. Poor Dr. Nickerson. This would have been some much-needed good publicity.
The minister trudged back toward the crowd, telling them that film was offensive to the religious and tribal habits of their new guests and that sensitive people would back off.
Nobody with a camera is sensitive, but everybody wants to think they're sensitive, so finally, the TV people gave up and went away. Even Mrs. Lane left, and she did not easily go along with anything.
The Amabos sat in the van, hands—or in Andre's case, sleeves—over their faces.
Except Alake, who had not noticed.
On the plane to Texas, a passenger asked to be reseated. He did not make eye contact with the fifth refugee when he moved. He considered alerting the flight attendant that there was something wrong with the man in 23B. He decided this would only delay the flight.
Step one, said Mom, was the bathroom. She would take Celestine and Andre to theirs, Jared would take Mattu to his and Mopsy would take Alake to hers. Everyone must be grimy after so much travel. Everybody was to borrow a bathrobe after they took a shower, and meanwhile Mom would run everybody's clothes through the wash, since nobody had a change.
Jared ran up the stairs with Mattu carefully climbing after him, balancing his boxes. “Where do you want to put those?” asked Jared.
Mattu was too busy staring at his new room to answer.
For all Jared knew, in Africa ten families would sleep in a room this size. Jared didn't feel like thinking about that stuff. “This is your bed,” he said, pointing to the one he normally used as a table. It had been cleared off and had clean sheets. Flannel sheets, which Jared detested, but which Mom felt were cozy in winter.
Mattu continued to hold his boxes.
“What's in them?” asked Jared again.
“The ashes of my grandparents.”
Jared was speechless. All four of his grandparents were alive and well and probably playing tennis or golf right now, since they wintered in Arizona. He couldn't stand thinking of his beloved grandparents disappearing into some shabby little cardboard box.
The dormer window had a large ledge, almost a seat, which Jared used as a drop-off spot for anything he might want again one day. He swept everything onto the floor and dusted the surface with the flat of his hand. Since Jared was always hot, he generally left this window cracked. A sliver of cold air shivered over the ledge. It felt good. Jared opened the window wider.
By day he had a fabulous view of the water, but Jared had no use for views. What he liked was the cliff. Jared and his friends used to play Search and Rescue up and down that cliff, but when they got older, they played soccer in the road instead. Now everybody he knew had a driver's license (except Jared, whose parents did not think he was mature enough to drive, but somehow he was mature enough to sponsor a refugee) and nobody hung around playing ball anymore.
Mattu set his boxes down and flexed his arms.
He must've been holding them for like twenty-four or thirty-six hours, thought Jared. He turned on the shower, showed Mattu how to get the water hotter or cooler, handed him a washcloth and towel, flung a bathrobe onto the counter and left. He had no idea whether Mattu was used to showers and flush toilets and soap that pumped out of a plastic bottle. But a guy who could hang on to his dead grandparents' ashes through a civil war, two continents and Immigration could probably manage a bath.
Mopsy got Alake upstairs by pushing lightly in the middle of her back. The minute Mopsy stopped pushing, Alake came to a halt. It was a slow trip.
Mopsy's bedroom was pink, white and frilly, but her bathroom was yellow, with yellow towels and a yellow and white striped shower curtain and a yellow and green finger painting Mopsy had done in nursery school. Mopsy pulled Alake off the thick pink carpet of her bedroom and onto the white tiles of the bathroom. Alake showed no sign of knowing what a bathroom was for.
Mo
psy peeled off her own clothing, hoping Alake would follow this example, but Alake didn't, so Mopsy carefully tugged at the girl's T-shirt. Alake lifted her arms, her first voluntary move, and Mopsy felt pretty good about that.
Nothing more happened.
Mopsy's shower was a square stall with a clear sliding door. She turned on the shower, checked the temperature, got in, soaped, rinsed and stepped out. She wrapped herself in a huge yellow towel. Then she pushed Alake—still half dressed—under the water and slid the door closed.
She went back into the bedroom to give Alake a little privacy. Maybe Alake would get bare under the shower. After a while Mopsy went back in the bathroom. The shower was still running, but all of Alake's clothing was now lying on the floor and she was dripping on the mat, a towel around her just the way Mopsy had done it. She looked clean and relaxed. Or maybe Mopsy was making that up.
Mopsy turned off the flow of water and held out the sleeves of her bathrobe, which was short on Alake but fleecy and warm. Mopsy tied it around Alake's waist, stuck floppy bunny slippers on her feet and tugged her downstairs.
She was pronouncing the name “a lake.” It occurred to her that nobody in the African family had used the name yet.
Two people could sit on stools at the kitchen bar, and eight at the farm-style table. Jared looked with satisfaction at the feast provided by the church ladies. It was sufficient for a castle during a siege, or else teenage boys.
Here at the back of the house, there was no view of anything, and with the sun down, there was nothing outside but darkness. “We must close off the night,” said Celestine urgently.
“It's okay,” said Mom. “There's nothing out there.”
“There is always something out there,” said Celestine.
They must have seen American TV news, which loved crime above all else. Celestine probably figured that what you found in an American backyard was murderers.
“That's Africa,” said Mom, smiling. “This is a totally safe neighborhood. I love the dark.”