Chapter Twelve

If you close your eyes to facts, you will learn through accidents.

—Krio Proverb

Von watched Caitlin glide gracefully and confidently toward the Xaverian priest. He noticed the priest’s bandaged hand and said to Rilke, “I do believe that’s the same priest Biko and I passed on the road to Forécariah. I admire the RUF’s handiwork. I wonder if the priest can still perform mass.”

Rilke unwrapped his arm from the evening’s purchased hooker, bent his hand down, and motioned a stiff cross in the air. “Bless me, Fader, for I have sinned.” The girl with him laughed. Rilke caught the eye of the bartender and shouted, “Hey! Bring us more beer!”

Von drank down his Scotch. “Rilke, I’ve figured out how we can move our diamonds directly to America without using human mules.”

“How’s that?”

“In my art collection—inside the rattles and drums and masks. I should be able to take at least a thousand stones in one trip. All I need is an invitation from an American organization or museum to show the exhibit.” His eyes moved to Caitlin. “Or perhaps an art gallery.”

“It doesn’t matter to me how we get them there. I just hope you can sell them once we do, and you better hope Papa’s men don’t figure out that you’ve been stealing the RUF blind.”

“Rilke, I’m making the RUF so much bloody money that the thought of how I could be making my own fortune doesn’t even enter their primitive heads. Moving the stones won’t be a problem. I’ve already found buyers. The U.S. Government is so focused on illegal drugs and terrorists that they aren’t looking for uncut diamonds.”

“Have you heard from Biko yet?” Rilke said. He slammed his empty beer bottle on the counter. “Hey! I said to bring me another beer!”

“Yes. Biko is in New York as we speak, meeting with Black Muslim groups who support Papa. He has successfully raised a great deal of funds and even recruited some experienced soldiers who should be excellent officer material for his units. After New York, he has appointments in New Orleans. That’s where he wants to meet us. From there he will fly to Libya.”

“Blood lucky you met Biko. I suppose he thinks the same about you since he’s now got a bank account that rivals Taylor’s. He better watch his back. I’m told Taylor doesn’t trust anyone who is successful.”

“Yes, Biko enjoys the money, but I think Taylor better watch his back when Biko’s around.” Von’s eyes returned to Caitlin. “Rilke, Caitlin is the finest girl I’ve ever met. I wonder how Monroe, Louisiana could produce such a beauty. You know, I’ve held many fine gems in my life, but I’ve never seen a jewel like her. I think I just might have to marry her.”

“You’re joking me, right? You want to marry that flaky Yank who was just with us?”

“I am dead serious. I intend to marry her.”

Rilke snorted. “I think all your bloody money and the damned heat has made you daft, Von. You couldn’t be that desperate. There’s a boatload of drop-dead gorgeous women available here for little or nothing. Why don’t you buy one or two of them and get your mind off this girl.”

Von leaned against the bar, placing his head on his hand, his eyes glued on Caitlin. “Unlike you, Rilke, I can’t be satisfied with bush girls or the serpents we passed at the door. I’ve been searching all my life for a woman like Caitlin. More than that, she’s an artist with her own gallery.”

Rilke laughed. “I see. Is it her art gallery you’re thinking of sending the diamonds to then? Come on, girl. Let’s leave this lovesick fool. I’ll see you at the house, Von. Do you want a girl tonight?”

Von slapped Rilke’s girl on the ass when she stood. She smiled and chattered Krio vulgarities. “Sure,” Von said. “Make sure she’s pretty, but don’t pay her up front. Tell her I may be delayed, so if she wants money, she needs to stay awake. Take a cab to my house and leave me your jeep. I’m going to need it for a while tonight.”

Rilke pitched him a set of keys. “Be careful where you go. Stay on the main roads. Biko’s not with you. In spite of what you think, not everyone here knows you. I’ll call my boys on curfew duty and let them know you’ll be in my jeep.”

When Von turned and saw Caitlin and Mandy walk toward the door, he moved to the other side of the bar where they would have to pass by him. Caitlin stopped and opened her umbrella.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t get to talk more tonight, Von,” Caitlin said, “but I hadn’t seen my uncle in so long. What time do you want me tomorrow?”

“I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning. We’ll go to breakfast, then to work. I think someday soon, I’ll ask you to marry me.”

“I think you must be very drunk, Von, to say something silly like that. But it’s nice to hear, so thank you for the compliment.” With that, she stepped out into the dark and the rain.

Mandy followed a few steps behind her. Von pinched her ass as she walked by. Mandy turned and slapped his hand. “Psycho,” she muttered. “Get a life.”

Von turned his attention back to the few left in the bar. Their eyes were on the priest, who now was preaching to all about him, his voice more agitated and louder than before. He waved his arm sans hand in the air, crossing himself and slinging the bandaged stump forward as though he flicked holy water on unseen supplicants.

The bartender wiped the table in front of Von and pointed at Father Ambrose. “The priest, he’s drunk and needs to be taken back to the mission. It’s nearly curfew. If he doesn’t get out, he’ll have to spend the night on the floor.”

“I’ll see him out and home, Edward,” Von said. “Don’t cause a scene.”

“You’re sure you want to fool with him?” Edward said. “He looks like a crackpot to me, priest or no.”

“I’m sure.” Von slipped a ten-dollar bill into Edward’s hand. “Let me take care of the priest. Can you help me get him into Rilke’s jeep?”

“Sure, Von.”

****

Von drove the very drunk Father Ambrose back to the Xaverian mission. The same guard who had stopped his car earlier in the day roused himself from his nap and stood at the gate.

“How de body?” Von asked.

“I tell God tank ya,” the guard said.

“As you can see, I need to get the priest to his quarters.”

“Father Ambrose, he have party tonight? I go for the sister. The sister, she show you where his room be.”

The guard returned a few minutes later with a nun. The rain had slowed, and she guided her way with a flashlight.

The nun directed the beam of her flashlight to the priest’s face and gasped. “Is that Father Ambrose you have there? Is he hurt?”

Von laughed quietly. “No, Sister. He’s fine. The good Father just overindulged tonight a bit. Would you be kind enough to direct me to his quarters?”

After Von pulled the limp and unsteady frame of the priest from the car and to his feet, he supported him with an arm around his waist and, following the nun, walked him into the mission compound.

The nun ushered them to a tiny, sparsely furnished room at one end of the barracks. After she lit a kerosene lamp she said, “The power’s out again. I’ll have the generator on in a moment and you can turn on his fan.” She pointed to a small oscillating fan by his bed.

The nun helped Von carry Father Ambrose to the small bed and they stretched him out.

She picked up the priest’s hand, kissed it, and whispered, “Sleep with the saints, tonight, Father.”

“I know one of your volunteer workers well, Caitlin Johnson. Are her quarters in the compound?” Von asked.

“She and her roommate Mandy live in the first small barracks you passed as you came through the gate. You say you know them?”

“I know Caitlin. I am not acquainted with her roommate yet.”

“Ah, all the boys love Miss Caitlin. She is indeed an angel. She has done so much for the boys since she came.”

“She’s smart and beautiful and talented,” Von said, “and a wonderful artist.”

The priest began to snore.

“You talk as if you know Miss Caitlin well,” the sister said.

“She is my employee. And besides, how else should one talk of his fiancée?”

The nun clasped her hands together. “Miss Caitlin’s engaged? Why she hasn’t breathed a word of it!”

“Nor should you,” Von said. “We wanted to keep it rather quiet.” Von marveled at the gullibility of the typical person. They will believe anything you tell them. However, he rather liked the sound of what he had said. Yes, fiancée. The nun’s face beamed with the joy that only a not-of-this-world person can possess. He said, “So, please, can I trust in your discretion?”

“Not a word will come from my lips.” She glanced reverently upwards. “Thank you, Lord, that you have the power to work upon the human heart by bringing us love!”

“Sister, if you’ll leave, I’ll prepare the father for bed. It’s too hot for him to sleep in those clothes.”

“Of course. And again, thank you. Such a Christian man you are. You are welcome to spend the night here. We could find you a bed if you wish.”

“No, thank you, Sister. I borrowed a car and must return to my own lodging.”

After the nun left, Von raised Father Ambrose, removed his clothes, and laid him back down. He studied the priest’s body, touching it, wondering at its softness and the stories of its scars. Finally, he touched the bandaged stump at the end of the handless arm and speculated as to whose handiwork it was. When Von poked the bandage a little harder, the father opened his eyes.

“Get some sleep, Father,” Von said. “You’re safely back in your own room.”

“Thank you for helping me,” Father Ambrose said. “But I’ve forgotten your name. I’m having trouble focusing, and I can’t make out your face. I feel I should know you.”

“Von,” he said as he clicked on the fan. “My name is Von. Goodnight, Father. We haven’t met, but I think you know me. Don’t thank me. I’m just doing my Christian duty.” Von heard the generator start, so he turned down the lamp, turned on the fan, and left.

****

When his strange helper had left, Father Ambrose rolled from the cot to the floor and knelt in the African darkness at the side of his bed, intending to pray. Out of habit, he clasped his hands together, but his left hand passed through phantom fingers and wrapped on the cloth bandage gloving his wound, and he held his hands up to God in a Chinese martial salute.

“God, my father,” he began, but he could not dredge from his mind the rest of the words of the memorized prayers of a lifetime. “God, I am really drunk tonight, and I can’t remember what to say. We’ll deal with it tomorrow, okay? Brother Jon will receive my confession tomorrow and I will offer proper penance.”

He shook his head, again intending to remember his Vespers, but he could not. “I must see to the boys, tomorrow, Father. Please help me to help them.”

And he resolved that tomorrow he would minister to these lost boys, he would look into their empty eyes and try again to absolve them of incomprehensible sins, to convince them they could be forgiven. And he would help them, though he himself be drunken tonight, though he himself be empty inside and abandoned by God, though he himself wished to cry out “‘My God, why has thou forsaken me?’”

“I will not lose faith!” he shouted. “My God, I will not!”

Hoping that the dreams tonight would not be too harsh, hoping that someone somewhere had heard his cry and that he would have a peaceful night, he fell asleep on his knees. But the dreams were harsh, centered on the boy the mission had lost last year. He had met the boy when he had taken a two-week holiday and come to Freetown. He listened to his own voice as it narrated the sad story.

****

Benjamin, yes, that was the boy’s name. He had deserted the RUF and came to the mission on his own accord. He truly had a penitent heart. I walked with him to his parents’ home. The father came to the door, but the welcome was icy, and a stony silence was all the returning prodigal received. Benjamin knelt and begged his father to forgive him for having fought with the rebels.

“No,” Benjamin’s father said. “The priest be welcome, but you must stay outside.”

“Father, I am Benjamin, your son.”

“You be no son of mine. Papa Sankoh, he be your father now.”

“Father, I did wrong thing. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you? No. I will not forgive.”

“Father, I am sorry. Sorry, please. Why do you reject me? One does not cast even a bad child into the bush!”

“You ask me why? Angie, you come here girl!”

A little girl shuffled to her father. When she saw Benjamin, she screamed and clawed at her father, hiding behind his back. Benjamin’s father reached behind himself, took one of the little girl’s arms, then another, and forced into view two little handless arms.

“This be your work, Benjamin,” he said. “With your own cutlass you cut off the hands of your sister. And you do things to others that night. You will find no forgiveness here. There be no one here who wants you.”

Benjamin nodded, pulled a small sack from his pants pocket and tossed it at the father’s feet. “There be diamonds and gold in that sack, Papa. Enough to help you live well.” Then Benjamin turned and walked away.

I followed and tried to console Benjamin, but there was no balm in Gilead, no exorcist for this young man’s demons. Instead of returning to the mission, Benjamin marched toward the West Side Boys’ territory. I begged, threatened, and attempted to reason, but Benjamin walked on, and left me far behind. From a distance, I saw him talk with a group of boys who wore women’s wigs and bizarre clothes. After I finally caught my breath, I reached Benjamin only to see him place a revolver against his head and pull the trigger.

I ran to his body, then ran back to Benjamin’s house. The father returned to the door.

“Your son, he is dead,” I said.

“My son, he be dead a long time. I wish to have kill him myself. Angie, come here child.”

From another room trod the barefoot handless girl, and the handless arms wrapped around a sonless father’s neck. “It be good now, Angie,” Benjamin’s father said. “Your brother, he no come back again.”

The sound of their weeping tore my heart out. I went back to Benjamin’s body and kicked away two pye dogs sniffing his body. I scanned the ground for the pistol, but someone had already taken it. I tried to lift Benjamin’s body, but my strength failed me, so I left Benjamin’s body on the street and walked back to the mission to minister to the other boy soldiers who had surrendered. I sent someone for Benjamin’s body later.

****

As Von left, he closed the priest’s door and scanned the mission grounds. The rain had died, and he heard music coming from a lit window of the small apartment the nun said was Caitlin’s. He slipped quietly toward it, and up to the curtained pane. The darkness about him felt like a warm cloak as he peered inside.

Caitlin sat cross-legged on her bed. She wore a white T-shirt and white panties, and she held a sketchpad in her lap. He studied her as she drew and chewed thoughtfully on her pencil. He saw the sweat glisten on her body and the dark outlined circles of her nipples through the T-shirt. Von stayed and filled his eyes with her beauty, even after it had started raining again. When she held the sketchpad up to the light, he saw the outline of a man who looked very much like himself.

“She loves me already,” he whispered. His breathing quickened with his lust. Her lips moved and he was sure he heard her say, “Oh, Von, at last…”

****

Every day Caitlin probed Tejan to talk about his experiences—always unsuccessfully. However, he did begin participating in the classes. He appeared interested in learning anything he could from Caitlin, especially English. Tejan listened to her intently, slapping his head whenever he failed to remember or when he mispronounced English words.

Caitlin’s uncle took Tejan on walks occasionally. They would walk the compound together, talking in French, and when Father Ambrose left to return to his work, Tejan wept and clung to the priest desperately.

No matter what Caitlin or any of the other staff members tried, Tejan refused to talk about his experiences as a boy-soldier. He remained a loner, aloof from the other boy soldiers. Whenever the other boys would be outside during recess, playing soccer with local Freetown boys, or playing on drums and dancing, Tejan would sit by himself, staring into space or endlessly recopying his lessons.

One day he had an altercation with another boy who tried to take his sleeping mat.

After the workers broke up the fight, one of the doctors cornered Caitlin.

“I appreciate what you and Father Ambrose are trying to do with this boy, but if he does not make progress, he will be put out of the shelter,” the doctor said.

“You can’t do that,” Caitlin said. “He doesn’t seem to have been affected as deeply as the others. Maybe he just needs some space.”

“Oh, so you’ve worked here long enough to become the expert? For one thing, personal space is nothing that a socially adjusted African wants or expects. And I can put him out of the mission, especially in view of his recent violent episode. He’s only used his fists so far, but who knows how long it will be before he uses a weapon. The head of the mission agrees with my assessment of Tejan. Resources here are limited. All of the boys here are traumatized. We don’t have the luxury of being generous and giving unlimited chances. Tejan’s cover-up and denial is a coping, a survival tactic. I’ve seen such behavior before. If we ignore it, he’ll only turn on us and return to the rebels. If he wants to get well, he’ll cooperate and allow us to give him what he needs.”

“What does he really need?” Caitlin asked.

“The chance to be a child again, to regain his humanity and the years the RUF took from him, but we can’t do that if he doesn’t let us help him.”

“I can help him,” she said.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound harsh. But I do want to say this: Your optimism is admirable, but it is also naive. You must admit the possibility that Tejan and several of the other boys are damaged goods beyond rehabilitation. Some of these boys have committed enough murder, rape, and cannibalism to make Jeffrey Dahmer look like a sissy. They have no concept of what affection is. They refuse to trust adults. It’s a hard, long road they have to travel before they be a part of normal society. And the odds are against them.”

“He’s only a child!” Caitlin said. “You’re so cynical.”

“No, Tejan never had the chance to be a child. And the odds are that he will never get that chance. Not here,” the doctor said. “Not in Sierra Leone.”

Caitlin looked at Tejan sitting across the room. He seemed to be lost in a daydream again. Yet, Caitlin felt certain that she could somehow reach him. “You’re right. I can’t do it here.”

“What are you talking about?” the doctor asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

That night she made a drawing of Tejan. She sketched him standing on the deck of her houseboat, with the Ouachita River and the Monroe skyline as a background.

The next day she found Tejan sitting outside under a jacaranda tree. She handed him the portrait she had made. “Look, Tejan, Miss Caitlin made a drawing of you. I want you to have it.”

Tejan took the drawing. First, his eyes widened, then he smiled. “Thank you, Miss Caitlin. This is good picture. Only important men have pictures made of them.”

“That’s true, Tejan. And you are very important to Miss Caitlin.”

He held the picture up, looking out of the corner of his eye to see if the other boys were watching. “Where is Tejan in this picture? I do not know the place.”

“It is on my home on the Ouachita River in Louisiana. That’s where I imagined you in my mind.”

“Your boat is very big, like pam-pam?”

“No, it is not a ferry. It is what we call a houseboat. Tejan, you are doing very well. Would you like for Miss Caitlin to give you some extra help learning English?”

He fixed his eyes on hers. “Why? What does Miss Caitlin want from Tejan? Does she want diamonds like other poo-muis?”

“I don’t want anything but you to get well.”

“Tejan is still sick? What is wrong with Tejan? He will die soon like the others?”

Caitlin felt a stab of pain in her heart. Some of the boys had died. One had passed away in his sleep just last night. Tejan had watched the workers wrap the boy in a sheet and carry him out to the new cemetery outside the compound. Another in the cemetery named Benjamin had killed himself after he had tried unsuccessfully to reconcile with his family. She patted Tejan on the chest. “No, Tejan you will not die. But you are sick. Sick on the inside. There are things you have lost that you must get back. It may take a long time.”

“Miss Caitlin, will the British soldiers send Tejan to Pademba Road Prison? Tejan thinks now he has done many bad things. If it take long time, they send me away?”

“No, they won’t send you to prison. And Tejan, nothing that has happened is your fault. Not your fault, do you hear me? And I promise to help you get well. Do you have any family we can find who will help us?”

Tejan plucked a stem of grass and chewed on it. “Miz Caitlin does not need to look for Tejan‘s family. He has no one but Father Ambrose now. My mamá and papá, they die when Papa Mohamed took Tejan.”

Caitlin struggled to control her emotions, but she heard her voice breaking up as she spoke. “So, Tejan is an orphan like me.”

“How did Miz Caitlin’s parents die?”

“Not in a war like yours. In a wreck—a car accident. I really miss them, just like you miss your parents.”

“Tejan is sorry, Miz Caitlin. He did not mean to make you sad. Tejan's head thinks too much.” He looked at her. “Tejan wish you be his mamá and to help him with Anglais. It make Tejan very happy.”

At that moment, Caitlin knew she wouldn’t be able to leave Sierra Leone without Tejan. Here in Sierra Leone, this orphan faced a bleak and uncertain future outside the mission. He would have to eke out a pathetic living in civilian life, and he had no trades or skills to rely on even if stability returned to the nation. Worse, he might be drawn into gangs and live on the streets or be forced to join another army. If she left him here, he would die.

She rubbed the top of his head. “Yes, Tejan, I will be your mamá. But you must promise me you will get well. And Tejan, you must start talking to Father Ambrose, and to Miss Caitlin and the doctors about everything that has happened to you, everything they did to you, everything you have done. They will not let me be your mamá unless you do.”

“Miz Caitlin will not like Tejan if he tells these things. Tejan hear what others say about boy soldiers.”

She wanted to pull him to her and squeeze him, but she followed the voice of caution in her head. “I will love you, Tejan, no matter what. I want to take you with me to Louisiana, but you must get well. You can’t live like you used to. Never again can you be a soldier. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Tejan know this. My grandfather said when Tejan was little boy, ‘A dance that makes a person poor, you nah forget the song.’ Tejan will not forget.”

At lunch, Caitlin sat next to Mandy. They watched the boys play the tunnel game. In this game, the boys stood in two lines facing each other. They joined hands with the boy across from them, creating a tunnel through which the first two boys would run. When the first two reached the end, they would face one another and lock their hands in the air, becoming part of the tunnel through which the next pair at the front of the line ran. In some ways, it reminded Caitlin of the Virginia Reel.

For the first time, Tejan played too. Caitlin immediately saw the psychological dimensions and implications of the game, a game designed to repair the war-torn fabric of trust. So much can be said in the simple act of holding hands with someone.

“Mandy, how hard is it to adopt a child here?” Caitlin asked.

“It depends on the child’s situation. If you’re talking about adopting one of the boy soldiers, I’d have to say that you were crazy and that it was probably time you thought about returning to the States. Adopting one of these lads, even Tejan, whom I presume you’re talking about, would be risky. You would really want an ex-killer as a son? Besides, I’ve heard most adopted kids taken to another country miss Africa and become so homesick they don’t do well.”

“Do you know anyone who can help me adopt Tejan? I mean, he has no parents, no living relatives. He has no village to return to, no money, no future here. If he’s left alone in a war zone, and the RUF gain control, they will kill him for quitting them.”

“Your uncle has helped arrange adoptions for some girls from his mission in the Northern District. I hear he has friends who are government officials. I bet he’ll tell you what you need to do. But you live in Louisiana. I thought you had race problems there. How would people feel about a young white woman adopting a black teenager?”

“He would have far fewer problems than he’d have here. The worst we’d experience there is some social ostracism. Believe me, compared to the violence and hate in this land, Louisiana is a Utopia. I think Uncle Ambrose will help me, don’t you?”

“Probably. He’s quite fond of Tejan.”

“You are a sweetheart,” Caitlin said. “I’m going to start giving Tejan some extra attention.”

The next afternoon, there came a hard rain. When Tejan heard the thunderclaps and the raindrops hitting the tin roof, he dropped his sketchpad and pencil and ran outside. Caitlin followed. Tejan stood, his arms extended horizontally as if he were hanging on an invisible cross, his eyes closed and his face turned up to the sky, and she heard the raindrops slapping at his skin.

“Wash Tejan away, rain!” he sobbed. “Wash Tejan away!” He turned and saw Caitlin in the doorway. “Miss Caitlin, Tejan will tell you his story. But there is much I do not remember. Tejan is sorry. Please, Miss Caitlin, be Tejan’s mamá.”

She rushed out in the rain and embraced him. “Tell me what you do remember. The rest will come back to you. I will always love you and be your mamá, Tejan. No matter what you have done.”

In her trauma training, the doctors instructed Caitlin to look for such signs of intrusion—for those emotional outbursts, when thoughts and direct or symbolic responses occur spontaneously, when the human mind acknowledges past trauma and tries to break through the denial barriers the mind erects as a survival tactic. Though often painful, without this breakthrough, the mind becomes a denial prison.

Caitlin and Tejan stood together in the rain. Somehow the sound of Tejan's words and sadness reminded her of a song Hunter played often. Hunter said he had written the song when he was sixteen. Hunter would have been Tejan's age.