R. Anderson - Wayfarer

He found Paul sitting at the kitchen table, chopping onions. “There you are!” he said as Timothy entered, putting down the knife and pivoting his wheelchair to greet him. “Good to see you, though I suppose we could wish for better circumstances. Have a seat.” He plucked a chair from beside him and sent it skidding across the tile toward Timothy. “Now what’s this about getting suspended?”

“It was nothing,” said Timothy, squirming a little under his cousin’s level gaze. “I was just being stupid.”

“He says,” came Peri’s voice from the open refrigerator, “that he lost his temper.” She sounded perfectly calm now, as though she’d forgotten she’d ever snapped at him. “Paul, have we used up all the mayonnaise again?”

“Look in the door,” said Paul, then returned his attention to Timothy. “So was the other boy hurt? Worse than you, I mean.”

Timothy ran his tongue across his split lip. “Not really. I just knocked the wind out of him. But fighting’s against school rules no matter what, so…I guess I got what I deserved.”

“Hm,” said Paul. “Do your parents know?”

“Not yet. I was supposed to call them when I got here. Only they’ll be in bed now, so I thought…maybe I could send them an email.” Or pretend to, anyway. It wouldn’t take long to fake an apologetic message and send a copy to the dean, but what he really needed to say to his parents would take more time to figure out. A lot more time.

Paul looked skeptical, and Timothy held his breath. But in the end his cousin only said, “All right,” then picked up the knife and began chopping again.

That had been far too easy. It wasn’t like Paul-or Peri, either; they’d always been patient with Timothy’s mistakes, but when he broke the rules they’d given him no quarter until he put things right. Maybe they’d decided he was old enough to take responsibility for his own actions, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong here….

The telephone warbled.

“Excuse me,” said Paul, wheeling to answer. “Hello, Paul McCormick speaking.” He glanced at Timothy. “Yes, he’s here. Did you want to speak to him?”

Timothy’s stomach did a swan dive. It had to be his parents. The dean had called them and told them what he’d done, and he wasn’t ready. What was he going to say?

“I see,” Paul said. “All right then. Good-bye.” He put the phone back down. “Just the secretary at your school, making sure you’d arrived.”

“Oh, right,” said Timothy, his voice cracking with relief. “They said they’d do that. So…what’s for supper?”

They ate right there in the kitchen, which made Timothy feel a little more at ease: It meant Paul and Peri were treating him as family, instead of making an awkward fuss on his account. But even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were putting an effort into appearing relaxed and friendly with him, instead of just being that way.

“So,” said Paul as he passed Timothy the salad, “how’s your family?”

“Fine, I guess,” said Timothy.

“Uncle Neil still running that clinic for the poor, or whatever?”

“Yeah.” Kampala itself had good medical facilities, but his father often traveled to the nearby village of Luweero to offer his services. He also preached at the chapel and led Bible studies in their home, but Paul probably wasn’t interested in that. “He keeps pretty busy.”

“And your mum? What’s she up to these days?”

This was torture. Paul and Peri had never tried to make small talk with him before: They’d always talked about interesting things, like nature and art and music. He forced himself to answer politely and was dreading the next question when Peri broke in:

“Tell me about Uganda. What’s it like?”

Timothy was surprised: She’d never asked him about his home country before, and he’d assumed she wasn’t interested. “It’s…different,” he said. “Warmer mostly, and there’s more sunshine and not nearly as much rain. But it’s not all dried up or anything,” he added quickly. “It’s got plenty of green plants and trees and flowers. Kampala’s the capital, so there are lots of big banks and hotels and crazy traffic….”

His memory conjured up the image of Entebbe Road at rush hour, crammed end to end with the blue-striped white vans that served as regular taxis, while the motorcycle boda-bodas darted in and out of the chaos. His mother had begged Timothy not to ride the bodas when he went into the city with his friends, since they were dangerous, but they were so much cheaper and faster than a taxi that he’d usually done it anyway.

“The buildings are mostly light-colored plaster,” he went on slowly, trying to put the images into words, “and the roofs are red. Instead of crows and pigeons, we have these big, ugly storks. And the streets are full of people, but it’s not like here, where everyone rushes around with their heads down and won’t even look at one another. Ugandans are friendly-they like to talk and laugh, and when you meet someone, they ask how you’re doing and if your family is well and if you have any news….”

Paul nodded politely, but Timothy could tell he wasn’t that interested. Peri, on the other hand, had a faraway look on her face, as though she were imagining herself in Uganda at that very moment. “It sounds fascinating,” she said. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen. I wish…”

Her words trailed off as Paul reached over and gently put his hand on hers. She looked down at their overlapping fingers, and her face closed up again. “Yes. Well, never mind that. Did you get enough to eat?”

“The computer’s in my studio,” said Paul, leading Timothy down the corridor to a pair of French doors. “The connection’s slow, though, and sometimes it doesn’t work at all. I can’t make any promises.”

Though the curtains were drawn and the room dimly lit, it only took Timothy an instant to recognize his aunt’s old parlor. But now the built-in shelves that had once held porcelain figurines were littered with paintbrushes and tubes of oils, while an easel stood where the piano used to be. And instead of family photographs the walls were hung with canvases, all rendered in the bold strokes and vibrant hues that were Paul McCormick’s trademark.

“Here you go,” said Paul. He flicked a switch and the track lighting at the back of the room came on, revealing a computer desk in the corner. “Help yourself. Any problems, give a shout.” And with that he wheeled back out into the hallway.

Timothy dragged over a chair and sat down in front of the computer. Despite Paul’s warning the internet connection seemed to be working fine, and within a few minutes he had logged in to his school account.

You have one new message, his mailbox informed him.

Timothy’s heart plummeted as he saw the return address. It was from his mother. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, he forced himself to click the email open.

Hello, dear one! Hope this finds you well and happy, as we all are here…

He relaxed. Just her usual weekly letter. She hadn’t found out about his suspension after all: wouldn’t, either, until Timothy was ready to tell her. Though when he explained the reason for what he’d done, the news that he’d picked a fight with the biggest boy in the school would be the least of his mother’s worries, probably.

He skimmed the first few paragraphs of her note-which included a report of how his little sister, Lydia, was doing at school, as well as a funny story involving one of the neighborhood children and a list of requests for prayer-then slowed abruptly at the sight of a familiar name:

Miriam has been helping me with the children’s club, and a wonderful help she is too! So good to have her lovely voice to lead the singing, instead of my feeble croak. She asks to be remembered to you, and says she will write soon. In the meantime I am sending you a picture I took of her and Lydia last Sunday….