Diamonds in the Shadow (15 page)

Yet again the doorbell rang, and yet again the Amabos leaped out of their seats in panic. It was getting to Jared. This time Celestine knocked her coffee over. Mopsy went to Celestine's aid, Mom comforted Andre, and Dad looked as if one more visitor showed up in his house and he'd break china over their head.

So it was Jared who had to answer the door.

Because the side door opened into the garage, and because they generally kept the garage doors closed, theirs was a house where visitors mostly used the front door. Jared left the kitchen–family room, went through the spacious front hall, where the stairs curved so gracefully, and flung the door open. It never crossed his mind to see who was there first.

Big mistake. It was Emmy Wall. Crying.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Wall,” said Jared very loudly, to warn Dad. “Mom!” he yelled, giving Dad even more time to escape.

Mom rushed out of the kitchen. “Oh, Emmy! Poor you! Everything's so awful! Let me give you a hug!”

Jared sat back down at the table. If Mom had had a brain the size of a pea, she'd keep Emmy Wall out of the kitchen.

“Poor Emmy?” muttered his father. “Emmy's not poor. She has three-quarters of a million of our dollars. We're the ones who are poor.”

“Emmy, darling, I'm just heating Drew's dinner. He's working such long hours and he got home so late. Let me fix you a plate too.”

Dad stood up to leave, but he was too late.

“Oh, Drew,” said Mrs. Wall, wiping away her tears, “I knew what Brady was doing. I kept thinking everything would just go away, but it didn't and now we're really in trouble.”

“You knew?” shouted Jared's father. He slammed the four legs of his chair against the floor. “Emmy, you knew and you could have said something before it went this far? You could have told us or stopped him?”

Jared never wanted his father looking at Jared the way he was looking at Emmy Wall.

Celestine, Andre and Mattu were spellbound. Alake was stationary. Mopsy was sobbing in sympathy with somebody, but Jared couldn't tell who.

“He's a good man, really,” said Emmy. “Drew, I know you're on the committee dealing with my husband. I want the church to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“He's got the benefit of three-quarters of a million dollars. Now he needs the benefit of jail.”

Mopsy was undone by her father's fury. “Come on, Alake,” she whispered. “Let's go upstairs.”

Alake obeyed. It was like having a windup doll.

In her room, Mopsy tried to calm herself by studying her nail polish selection. She chose a glitzy fire-engine red called Filmstar and put the first coat on Alake's nails. Mopsy could never wait long enough for her own nail polish to dry, but Alake never moved anyway, so her fingers just rested where Mopsy positioned them.

Mopsy had been dressing Alake daily out of Mom's closet, and while Mom's clothes were fabulous, they were not designed with a teenage girl in mind. Was Mom taking on the view of Andre and Celestine—that Alake was just silence on a stick and they could drape her in any old piece of cloth and who cared?

Mopsy cared. She dragged Alake into Mom's walk-in closet, moving slowly down the racks, flinging aside one hanger and then another. She chose a silky black and red shirt, and red suede pants. Mopsy couldn't imagine her mother even trying on red suede, never mind buying it.

Alake stepped out of her own clothes before Mopsy had to force her, put on the red trousers and buttoned up the silken shirt. Mopsy stood her in front of the full-length mirror.

Alake pivoted slowly, checking herself at every angle. Then, arching thin fingers over her head like a ballerina, the fresh polish glittering and a perfect match for the trousers, Alake lightly touched her hair and tilted her head questioningly at Mopsy.

Alake was communicating.

This was great, because Mopsy was sick and tired of silence.
The most fun thing in life was talking. “Hair is everything,” she agreed. “Well, I guess not everything. I guess staying alive and having something to eat is actually everything. I've sort of gotten used to that train wreck on your head, but what you need is elegance. I totally see you modeling on a runway in a fashion show.”

Then didn't Alake strut across the bedroom exactly like a high-fashion model. She swung her hips at an invisible audience, bowed to Mopsy's applause and sashayed off.

How could Alake know what a fashion show was? Andre and Celestine and Mattu had seen so little television they couldn't tell a cop show from the morning news, or car commercials from interior decorating shows.

On a shelf sat Mom's little wicker basket for mending. Its lid was open, and sitting on the neatly arranged spools of thread was a pair of sharp, dainty scissors.

Mopsy picked up the scissors. She marched Alake back into their bathroom, set the yellow ducky wastebasket in the middle of the floor and said, “Lean over this as if you're throwing up, Alake. I'm cutting your hair.” Because after all, Alake's hair couldn't possibly look worse, only better. Mopsy snipped off the worst tangles and then snipped off the second layer of knots.

Alake put her thumb and first finger about half an inch apart and gestured toward the scissors.

“That's very short,” said Mopsy dubiously.

Alake nodded, which was thrilling from the communication standpoint.

“Okay. It'll still be longer than Mattu's. You have a pretty
head, Alake. It's like your face, bony and dramatic. You probably photograph very well, although in your picture from Africa I have to say you didn't look this good.” Mopsy clipped happily. Maybe she would be a hairdresser when she grew up instead of a prosecuting attorney or a zoo veterinarian.

“Oh, Alake!” breathed Mopsy. “Look in the mirror! You are beautiful! I can't wait for everybody to see you.”

“We have homework,” said Jared, glaring until Mattu tore himself away from the scene in the kitchen and came reluctantly after him. Up the stairs they went.

Voices followed them: Emmy sobbing, Dad yelling, Mom pleading for peace. It was like a representation of the world: one country paying for its greed, one country fighting back in rage, one country trying to stop them.

Jared could hear Mopsy cooing in her bedroom. Didn't she ever understand anything? Didn't she realize that Dad was coming apart this very minute, in this very house? That Dad was so close to smacking somebody—

Too close.

Jared changed his mind about how to handle this. “Come with me, Mattu. Whatever I say, you go with it. Got it?” Jared stomped back downstairs, planted himself in front of his father and said, in a voice that sickeningly resembled Mopsy's, “You know what, Dad? I had this brilliant idea. If we turn on the
outdoor spotlights and light up the whole driveway, you can give Mattu his first driving lesson tonight. The sooner he can drive, the sooner they'll be independent.” Jared took his father's hand, the way Mopsy ten times a day took Alake's.

Mattu was right on cue. “You mean it? I can start driving? Tonight?” he cried, as if he too had spent sixteen years waiting for this minute.

Jared scooped up the car keys and handed them over.

“I will watch,” said Andre, moving to Dad's other side, and he and Jared swept Dad out of the kitchen, down the back hall, past the laundry room and into the garage.

Jared pressed the button to raise the automatic door and hit the floodlights.

“Why didn't you tell me these lights were here?” said Celestine, tagging along. “I would always want them on.”

“I forgot,” admitted Jared. “We like the dark so we can see the stars.”

Dad showed Mattu forward and reverse, warming to the task because he didn't want dents in his beloved car and because he was a born teacher. A hundred yards backward, a hundred yards forward, Dad and Mattu traveled the driveway over and over.

Andre said to Jared, “You are a good son.”

Upstairs, Mopsy decided to do a test. She would parade Alake in front of everybody in the kitchen. Alake's stunning presence
would give the three bickering adults something else to think about. And Mopsy would find out what it took to get Celestine and Andre's attention. They had not once acted like a mom and dad. Surely they would notice how terrific Alake looked in black and red. Surely they would admire the daring new haircut.

Mopsy headed for the stairs. “Come on, Alake. Let's show off to your mother and father.”

Alake hung back. She looked pleadingly at Mopsy.

What am I doing? Mopsy thought. Tests are for school. I can't test Andre and Celestine, and I can't test Alake either. Home is where nobody tests you.

Twenty-one days were left. He had to find the Amabos and get to New York City.

But Victor could not ask the refugee agency for help, because the only thing they could talk about was work. He had nothing to do all day except wander. He no longer had television, because the Sudanese men had been paying for the cable and Victor had paid no bills. He found bars where he could watch sports television.

Day by day his rage increased.

He considered torturing the resettlement staff, but they really didn't seem to know where the Amabos were. Once he telephoned the New York City number. No one answered. It was possible to leave a message but Victor didn't. Until he found the Amabos, Victor had nothing to sell.