Diamonds in the Shadow (21 page)

Mopsy was sick of being patient with Alake. “It's okay,” she said. The pointless anxiety was driving her crazy.

The doorbell rang.

Alake fled upstairs. Mopsy could tell from the sounds that Alake had gone not only into the bedroom, but into the closet.

Mopsy opened the door for the stranger.

Mopsy loved strangers. They were so much more interesting than people you already knew. Uncovering the details of other people's lives was Mopsy's specialty. In fact, now that she thought about it, probably being a talk show hostess was her best future.

“Hi,” said Mopsy, smiling. “Are you here about the Amabos?”

J
ARED AND
M
ATTU WERE ON
the late bus. Jared was sleepy in the overheated bus.

Mattu asked suddenly, “What do you think it means in church when they say your sins are forgiven?”

“It's a crock,” said Jared, not bothering to open his eyes. “I don't believe there's such a thing as sin anyway. Just look at television. You can do anything you want with anybody you want for any reason you want and what happens? Nothing. There are crimes, and sometimes people go to jail for them, but not always. I bet Brady Wall gets off.”

“But if they chop off your hands, have they not committed a sin?”

All these Africans had to do was utter one sentence and all Jared's thoughts were flung into turmoil. Yes. There were still sins. And chopping off somebody's hands was one of them.

Mattu said in a low, intense voice, “Could you be forgiven for chopping off somebody's hands?”

Jared wanted to leap off the bus and walk home. Had Mattu chopped somebody's hands off? Andre's, for example? No wonder these people didn't talk to each other.

“Would Jesus forgive?” Mattu pressed.

This was so not Jared's thing. “Ask my parents.” He felt queerly out of breath. Panicky.

“It is your thought I wish to hear.”

“I don't see how even Jesus could forgive somebody who chopped off somebody else's hands. It would be like forgiving the Holocaust.”

“What is the Holocaust?” Mattu asked.

Jared was always startled at how little Mattu knew of the West. But why did Jared have to be the person to explain? One good thing. Jared had learned that he was not destined to be a teacher. One future career down, a thousand choices to go. “This nightmare that happened in Germany in the 1940s. The bad guys penned up several million Jews and slaughtered them. It's called the Holocaust.”

Mattu nodded. “We have those in Africa. I have been in one.”

George Neville had been so tense at Kennedy Airport as the Finches left with the Amabos that he had hardly even noticed the little Finch girl. He was pleased that she had recognized him, although how hard could it be, since he was probably the only black person she'd ever met before the Amabos got here?

Mopsy brought him a plate of sugar cookies, gleaming with pink and white icing. The cookies were delicious.

“Celestine made them,” the little girl told him. “There is absolutely not one thing that Celestine can't do. She got herself a new job too. On her own. She's amazing. And Mattu just found out that a boy at high school—Ian—has an after-school job. Mattu didn't know there was such a thing. He went to work with Ian yesterday, and they can take Mattu on too, and he starts next week.”

This was excellent news. George had been worried about this African family, and even more worried about their American hosts. It hadn't been extra work but a relief when Kirk Crick had called and asked if George could make the weekly visit this time. “How is Mr. Amabo doing?” he asked, remembering the sad, cringing father in the stretched-out sweatshirt and the sight of those naked arm stubs.

“Super. He and Mom have gone for the final visit to the surgeon before the first operation. You would not believe how fast everything has come together. I was worried because I thought he was going to get hooks, but they'll tackle the one cut off closer to the wrist first, and if it works, it's going to be an actual hand. Would you like to see photographs of the technology?”

“I'll pass, thank you. And how's the daughter?”

“Alake's upstairs. I'll run and get her. She has the most fabulous new hairstyle. I cut her hair. I did an awesome job, if I do say so myself. Although my mother had to clip a little bit more on one side where I got it lopsided. Alake's going to high school with Jared now, and her escort is Tay, so everybody is jealous, because
who wouldn't want Tay walking around with you?” Mopsy headed for the stairs.

Through the front door came Mattu and Jared, shaking off snow and laughing. “Hey, Mr. Neville!” cried Mattu. “Great to see you again!”

Upstairs, Mopsy said severely, “Stop hiding from people. People are nice. He's your refugee guy. He isn't going to deport you or something. Is that what you thought, when you recognized him?”

Nothing was going to make Alake head downstairs while Mr. Neville was here. Which was just as well. No need for him to find out that Alake was still silent.

Mopsy thought up some really good lies to tell Mr. Neville about why Alake wasn't trotting down to show off her new hairstyle, but it turned out not to be necessary, because just then Celestine was dropped off by her church volunteer driver, and Mopsy knew, because it happened with everybody, that even Mr. Neville would not think of Alake again.

Mopsy flung herself onto her bed and caught sight of her computer screen on the way down. “I know what let's do. Now that you're in high school, Alake, I never see you, and I never know what you're doing. I'm going to show you one more time how to send e-mails, and then you're going to write to me and that's that, Alake. I can totally tell you can read now, because out of the
corner of my eye I was watching your eyes move from word to word when we were looking at that book. And the real bonus is, you still don't have to talk. E-mail is perfect for you.” Mopsy shoved Alake onto the desk chair and propped her hands on the keyboard.

Alake studied her fingers as if they were objects on a shelf.

“Type!” shrieked Mopsy. “Or I'm going to start kicking you. Communicate with me!”

A tiny smile seemed to quirk the corners of Alake's lips. She lifted her hands. Curling her fingers just as Mopsy did, she began to tap letters. One by one, letters appeared on the screen.

Mopsy caught her breath. Okay, God, this is the time. Show Alake she's a real person, and make her figure out that real people talk to other people.

But the letters on the screen were random.

They did not form words.

deerjopsyeilovyouo

Alake was not trying to communicate. She was just tapping.

Mopsy told herself that they were making progress; at least Alake's hands weren't lying in her lap like stuffed animals. And typing was new to Alake—this was her very first keyboard moment. Mopsy should not have such high expectations. Still, it was depressing. Quinnie said Alake couldn't do anything. Mopsy had been hoping she could saunter into school and say “Alake can
so
do anything.”

Alake's posture was strange. In fact, Alake seemed to be the
one holding her breath. She looked at Mopsy, and she seemed to want something. What?

Mopsy looked at the letters again.
deerjopsyeilovyouo

Dear Jopsy.

I love you.

Mopsy began to cry. “No, don't change the ‘J' to an ‘M.' It's perfect the way it is. You were just up one row when you aimed at ‘M.' I love my new name. Now what we're going to do is, we're going to forward your first-ever message to Quinnie so she knows you've named me Jopsy.”

On the screen, Mopsy opened her address book. She clicked Quinnie's name. The message space appeared. Mopsy typed standing up, her arms in Alake's face.
Here's Alake's first e-mail. Isn't this great? I'm still Martha to you, but I'm Jopsy to Alake. Write back immediately so Alake gets into e-mail and does it all the time.

Alake elbowed Mopsy away from the keyboard.

This was the best thing to happen in weeks! Mopsy thought. This was true communication. This was how sisters behaved. They shoved.

Mopsy was totally happy until Alake deleted the name Quinnie and painstakingly typed in
Tay.

Even though Mopsy adored Tay and wanted to be just like her when she grew up (assuming she ever did; all bets seemed to be against it), she didn't want Tay to be the important person in Alake's life. Mopsy wanted to matter most. She sighed but called Jared on her cell phone to demand Tay's e-mail address. “Stop lying, Jared. You do so have it. You just don't want to share with me.
I know Tay texts you during the day to let you know how it's going.”

Jared sighed so loudly you could hear him ten telephones away. Then he dictated Tay's address and Mopsy typed it in.

The body of the refugee supervisor was discovered in a parking lot. His hands had been cut off. The amputations, said the coroner, had occurred before the man died.

The murder made the news in Texas.

But not in Connecticut.

Mr. Neville was long gone, and Jared and Mattu and Alake were downstairs watching television when at last there was a message on Mopsy's e-mail. “Alake!” she screamed. “Get up here! Tay answered! It's addressed to you, so you have to read it!”