cream.
“God's gift. You're gonna love it.”
The fifth refugee was met by a seventy-four-year-old volunteer who would drive him to the tiny apartment he was to share with two young men from Sudan. She enjoyed her refugee work, because she loved chatting, and all the Africans she had encountered spoke English. But this refugee was different. His rage was palpable. He did not want to chat. She couldn't imagine him chatting.
She almost bought him the return ticket to New York that he was demanding.
Instead, she paid his taxi fare so that she would not be alone with him.
Then she telephoned the two young men from Sudan to let them know their new roommate would be arriving momentarily.
She almost told them that she was afraid of him, but she did not want to judge.
Jared was hardly ever ready for bed. He always had another hour of TV in him. But Mattu was asleep sitting up. Jared shook Mattu's shoulder and they trudged upstairs.
In the bathroom, Mattu admired his new toothbrush as excessively as Mopsy would have, which put Jared over the edge. He ran downstairs to find his parents in the kitchen, cleaning up. “What'd Dr. Nickerson have to say?” he asked.
“He wants to kill Brady. We all want to kill Brady. But it's not your typical church activity.”
Jared laughed. “And how is everybody's refugee?”
“Celestine and Andre love their room,” said Mom. “They especially love how the shades pull down and that there's a night-light in the bathroom. But,” she said uncertainly (Jared's mother, who was never uncertain), “they just shut the door and went to bed. They didn't check on the children.” Mom was a double-checking kind of parent. Triple, sometimes.
“They checked on their kids enough to keep them alive through a civil war and get them to America,” Dad pointed out. “That's pretty serious checking. And maybe these kids don't need to be tucked in. You'd grow up fast in their world. Maybe at fifteen and sixteen, they're grown-ups.”
But Jared thought there was a different possibility.
Celestine and Andre were not behaving like parents.
So maybe they weren't.
Maybe Alake and Mattu were not the children of Celestine and Andre.
J ARED WOKE UP STARVING TO death. He arrived in the kitchen to find all four Africans already at the breakfast table. Alake was sitting there not drinking her orange juice and not touching her Cheerios. Jared tried to see Cheerios through African eyes but failed. He waved a jelly doughnut in front of Alake's eyes.
“Jared, don't push,” said his mother, as if there were any other way to get Alake going.
Mattu examined the selection of bagels, cinnamon raisin toast, blueberry and apple muffins and plain and sugar cereals. He chose one of everything and ate as if he really
were
starving to death.
Jared hadn't done any homework, because going to the airport had taken the whole day, not to mention the time he'd lost due to the shock of getting refugees to start with. The high school would totally accept refugees as an excuse for staying home, and he was planning on a long, happy breakfast and a little TV.
Mopsy was the kind of person who couldn't bear to miss school. She still loved her teachers, something Jared hadoutgrown in second grade. Maybe first. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't been all that fond of his kindergarten teacher.
Mopsy said, “Alake goes to school with me today.”
“But what can she do in school?” asked Mattu. “She just sits. Will the teacher not be angry?”
“No, they'll try to make her comfortable,” said Mom, as if Alake were dying in hospice, “and then do some testing.”
Jared wanted to know how testing was going to work on a person who was mute and blind, but he let it go.
“And since Alake is happy with Mopsy…,” Mom began.
Alake doesn't do “happy” any more than she does “unhappy,” Jared thought. Alake is just there.
“… and since hanging around the house would be boring for poor Alake…”
Jared
“God's gift. You're gonna love it.”
The fifth refugee was met by a seventy-four-year-old volunteer who would drive him to the tiny apartment he was to share with two young men from Sudan. She enjoyed her refugee work, because she loved chatting, and all the Africans she had encountered spoke English. But this refugee was different. His rage was palpable. He did not want to chat. She couldn't imagine him chatting.
She almost bought him the return ticket to New York that he was demanding.
Instead, she paid his taxi fare so that she would not be alone with him.
Then she telephoned the two young men from Sudan to let them know their new roommate would be arriving momentarily.
She almost told them that she was afraid of him, but she did not want to judge.
Jared was hardly ever ready for bed. He always had another hour of TV in him. But Mattu was asleep sitting up. Jared shook Mattu's shoulder and they trudged upstairs.
In the bathroom, Mattu admired his new toothbrush as excessively as Mopsy would have, which put Jared over the edge. He ran downstairs to find his parents in the kitchen, cleaning up. “What'd Dr. Nickerson have to say?” he asked.
“He wants to kill Brady. We all want to kill Brady. But it's not your typical church activity.”
Jared laughed. “And how is everybody's refugee?”
“Celestine and Andre love their room,” said Mom. “They especially love how the shades pull down and that there's a night-light in the bathroom. But,” she said uncertainly (Jared's mother, who was never uncertain), “they just shut the door and went to bed. They didn't check on the children.” Mom was a double-checking kind of parent. Triple, sometimes.
“They checked on their kids enough to keep them alive through a civil war and get them to America,” Dad pointed out. “That's pretty serious checking. And maybe these kids don't need to be tucked in. You'd grow up fast in their world. Maybe at fifteen and sixteen, they're grown-ups.”
But Jared thought there was a different possibility.
Celestine and Andre were not behaving like parents.
So maybe they weren't.
Maybe Alake and Mattu were not the children of Celestine and Andre.
J ARED WOKE UP STARVING TO death. He arrived in the kitchen to find all four Africans already at the breakfast table. Alake was sitting there not drinking her orange juice and not touching her Cheerios. Jared tried to see Cheerios through African eyes but failed. He waved a jelly doughnut in front of Alake's eyes.
“Jared, don't push,” said his mother, as if there were any other way to get Alake going.
Mattu examined the selection of bagels, cinnamon raisin toast, blueberry and apple muffins and plain and sugar cereals. He chose one of everything and ate as if he really
were
starving to death.
Jared hadn't done any homework, because going to the airport had taken the whole day, not to mention the time he'd lost due to the shock of getting refugees to start with. The high school would totally accept refugees as an excuse for staying home, and he was planning on a long, happy breakfast and a little TV.
Mopsy was the kind of person who couldn't bear to miss school. She still loved her teachers, something Jared hadoutgrown in second grade. Maybe first. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't been all that fond of his kindergarten teacher.
Mopsy said, “Alake goes to school with me today.”
“But what can she do in school?” asked Mattu. “She just sits. Will the teacher not be angry?”
“No, they'll try to make her comfortable,” said Mom, as if Alake were dying in hospice, “and then do some testing.”
Jared wanted to know how testing was going to work on a person who was mute and blind, but he let it go.
“And since Alake is happy with Mopsy…,” Mom began.
Alake doesn't do “happy” any more than she does “unhappy,” Jared thought. Alake is just there.
“… and since hanging around the house would be boring for poor Alake…”
Jared
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