Scholastica looked up at me then. It was as if she sensed we were talking about her. I saw myself walking out into the sun, leaving her there, making patterns on the pale cement floor, with all the curtains drawn.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Bless you!” Anna clasped her hands over mine.
Bahati was not as enthusiastic. “Are you sure you want to do this?” His face was different, like he was once more that solemn statue, carved out of wood, spear in hand.
“How hard can it be? Getting a bunch of kids to Wanza?” I had promised to cross the remaining names off Mo’s notes, and that’s exactly what I was going to do. “Anna, get Scholastica’s things ready. We are going to see Jack Warden.”
BY THE TIMEwe reached Jack Warden’s place, it was late afternoon. Stone pillars etched with the words “Kaburi Estate” led us down a winding, bumpy road to the main building—a white-washed manor surrounded by green gorges, banana groves, and endless rows of berry-laden coffee plants. It stood like a rebel, in the shadow of the mighty Kilimanjaro, with electric blue shutters that stood out against the dark clouds now gathering in the sky.
“I thought you told me there would be no rain today, Bahati,” I said, as I got out of the car. “Looks like a storm is coming.”
“I told her to dance up a storm.” It was a man’s voice, deep and rumbling, like low thunder. But there was no sign of him.
“It’s Jack.” Bahati tilted his head toward the covered porch. “Come. I will introduce you.”
“No. You stay in the car with Scholastica. I’ll go talk to him.” I didn’t want to drag Scholastica into the situation until I had spoken to Jack myself.
Lightning split the sky as I stepped onto the veranda. “Jack Warden?” I asked the man who was sitting on a kiwi green porch swing.
He didn’t respond. It was as if he hadn’t heard me. He was holding his phone out, eyes trained on the horizon, recording something. The storm. The lightning. When the thunder hit, he got up and walked to the railing, still recording.
He stood tall and rawboned against the rolling expanse of the farm—square faced and square shouldered—wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and dusty work pants. He had the kind of beard I imagined would grow on a man if he hibernated all winter. It was shorter around the side and fuller on his chin. His hair was thick and tawny—darker at the roots, with ends that were bleached blond from the sun. It hung around his shoulders, wild and forgotten, like a jungle of beautiful chaos.
As the first drops of rain started falling, he tucked his phone away and braced the railing, staring up at the sky. I was about to try to get his attention again when he started laughing.
“I told her to dance up a storm,” he repeated, but he wasn’t saying it to me. He was talking to himself.
He held his hands out, letting the water slip through his fingers, and he laughed again. It was a heavy, heaving laughter with big, gasping breaths in-between, unlike anything I’d heard before. Then the gasps grew louder, longer, and I realized why it sounded so odd. I had never heard someone laughing in pain, and Jack Warden was doubled over with it, weeping and laughing in the same breath.
“Jack?” I called again. “Are you okay?”
He whipped around, seeing me for the first time. I sensed all the loose, unraveled threads of him getting reeled back into his core. It happened so quickly, I felt like I was facing a different man: detached and emotionless—every nuance, every expression locked away. The air around him crackled, as if he had just thrown up an electric fence. Against the backdrop of dark, stormy clouds, he stood like Thor, glaring at me with lightning in his eyes
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m . . .” I trailed off, knowing that I had just intruded on a very private, unguarded moment. That was the only reason he was eyeing me like that, like he was about to chew me up and spit me out. “My name is Rodel Emerson.”
“What do you want?” He kept his eyes trained on me.
Cat eyes, I recalled Mo saying, from some unbidden memory.Because cats don’t hide their utter hatred and disdain for all mankind. I had laughed then because it had been funny, but I wasn’t laughing now. I was miserable and self-conscious, wishing I’d opted for something more substantial than a gauzy top and washed out jeans.
“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” I said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“And tomorrow will be better because . . . ?”
He took a step toward me, and my first instinct was to turn and run. But this wasn’t about me. It was about Mo, Scholastica, and the other kids. Still, I hated that I needed anyone to do what I had to do, man or woman.
“I need your help getting some kids to Wanza,” I said.
“You need my help,” he said slowly, chewing on the words. He turned around and called to no one in particular, “She needsmyhelp.” Then he started laughing. Not the gut-wrenching type of laughter like before, but mirthless, without any humor.
“Get off my property,” he said. “You’re trespassing. You’re also barking up the wrong tree. I am in no position to help you or anyone else. And more importantly, I don’t care to.”
“You’re Jack Warden, right?” I held my ground. I had promised Anna I’d get Scholastica to Wanza. I wasn’t about to crumble at the first sign of a challenge.
“I am.” He straightened to his full height, and I was tempted to take a step back. Holy crap, he was a big man.
