Джон Гришэм - Sooley

Beatrice and the boys moved around the sprawling and growing settlement. They waited in numerous lines at food points. They waited in lines for secondhand clothing and shoes. They roamed the dirt and mud streets with no destination in mind. They found a small market area and wondered how anyone had money to buy anything. They heard Dinka, their language, and Nuer, that of their biggest rivals, and Azande, Bari, Murle, English, and other unknown tongues. Like many of the mothers, she was searching. She had taught the boys to watch carefully, to quickly examine the faces of all teenage girls. It was possible that Angelina was in the camp and they might find her.

Beatrice saw an aid worker, a white woman, in a smart shirt with the words “Doctors Without Borders” monogrammed over the pocket. She was talking on a mobile phone and standing outside a large military tent being used as a hospital. She lowered her phone, took a deep breath, and noticed Beatrice staring at her from five feet away. Beatrice assumed she spoke English and said, “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” the lady replied with a warm smile.

“Is there any way to use a phone around here?”

“There is some cellular service but not much. Here at the hospital we have our own antenna and generator. There are a few others in the settlement.” She had one of those European accents.

“I’m looking for my children. My son went to America this summer to play basketball. I don’t know where he is and he doesn’t know where we are.”

“Does he have a mobile phone?”

“No. All I have is the name of his coach.”

“Where does the coach live?”

“Somewhere in America, but he’s South Sudanese.”

“Somewhere in America,” the lady repeated, amused. “Okay, give me his name and tell me what he does and I’ll try.”

“His name is Ecko Lam and he coaches the basketball teams from South Sudan. All the paperwork was in my house.”

“I see. Okay, here’s what I suggest. Meet me back here around noon the day after tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Thank you so much.”

The first football game was at Bethune-Cookman in Daytona Beach. For budgetary reasons, only half the team and four of the managers made the flight. To which Murray observed, “Surely they can play the game with fifty players.”

Samuel had a free weekend, his first since arriving. Late Saturday morning, after he had managed to get Murray out of bed, they walked to the gym, flipped on some light switches, and loosened up. It was an unwritten policy that any player on the team could shoot baskets during the off-hours, as long as no coaches were present. Every player was handed a key to the outside door, shown the light switches, and given the code to the locker room.

After four practices, it was obvious to the rest of the team that Sooley was blessed with lightning speed and quickness. He had easily won the suicide sprints. His running vertical leap was measured at 45 inches, higher than any of the coaches had ever seen. He weighed in at 190 pounds and measured six feet four and a half and was still growing. He loved the game, loved being on the floor, and regardless of how grueling the conditioning, he kept a smile on his face.

But he couldn’t shoot and he couldn’t dribble, a couple of the basics for a point guard. On defense, he could spring like a gazelle and slap away shots, but his quickness was often a liability. A simple pump fake would send him soaring.

After shooting for half an hour, Murray walked him through some ball handling drills and showed him the secrets of protecting the ball while watching everything on the floor. On the depth chart he was the number three point guard, behind Murray and Mitch Rocker, a senior and three-year starter. Another inch of growth, and another bad scrimmage kicking the ball out of bounds, and Sooley would become a small forward. Clearly, he was about to be redshirted. He had just turned eighteen and had little to add to a team with plenty of experience. Coach Britt was expecting to start three seniors and two juniors.

The Walker family lived in Durham’s Trinity Park neighborhood, ten minutes from Central’s campus. Their house was on a shaded street of two-story homes built before the war.

Murray’s mother, Ida, was born and raised in Durham and had never ventured far from home. Her father had been an executive with one of the largest black-owned life insurance companies in the country and her family had enjoyed a comfortable upbringing. Her husband, Ernie, was raised dirt poor in the tobacco fields north of Raleigh and had vowed to never forget the pain of hunger. He was the executive director of the Durham County Food Bank and took great pride in feeding 11,000 people a day.

Ernie had certainly not missed many meals recently. He was grilling chicken breasts on the back patio when Murray and Samuel arrived late Saturday afternoon. The heat index was close to a hundred and Ernie was soaked with sweat as he labored over dinner with a set of steel tongs and listened to the Central football game on the radio. He welcomed Murray’s new roommate, said he’d heard nice things about him and so on, and talked football. After a few minutes in the heat, the boys went inside to the kitchen where Mrs. Walker was grating cabbage for slaw and boiling ears of corn.

Miss Ida, as she would be called from then on, was the executive director of Durham Legal Aid, where she oversaw a staff of twenty attorneys serving an endless supply of poor clients. She hugged Samuel as though she had known him forever and told him to sit at the table while she sliced him a wedge of banana nut bread. Murray fancied himself a chef and commenced poking through her slaw and this drew a rebuke.

Samuel was instantly enthralled by Miss Ida. He had never been in the presence of a woman who was the unquestioned boss of everything around her. She quizzed Samuel about his classes and his adjustment to life in America, and she was careful not to mention his family. Murray had briefed them on the tragedies and the ongoing uncertainties, and they were already prepared to support Samuel in every way possible. As she buzzed around the kitchen, she asked Murray about his professors and which ones he preferred. After only two weeks there was little to report. They talked about Jordan, Murray’s older sister. She was in law school at Vanderbilt and Samuel was in love with her, though they had yet to meet. He was following her on social media. They talked about Brady, an older brother who had dropped out of Yale and was disrupting the family. But that conversation was cut short.

Ernie entered the much cooler kitchen with a platter of barbecued chicken and Miss Ida told him exactly where to put it. As he listened to the family chatter on, Samuel could not help but think of his own poor mother. He had no idea where she was, or even if she was alive. Where was she living? Who was she with? Please, God, let her have Angelina, James, and Chol with her. Let them be safe.

Beatrice was as warm and personable and intelligent as Ida Walker, but she had never been given the chance to enter a school. In Lotta, as in much of his country, the luckiest young girls were given only a few years of basic instruction before being sent home to wash and cook. Most received no education. Beatrice could read and write, nothing more.

Samuel longed for his mother and said a quick prayer for her well-being.

Even as Ida cooked and talked and bossed around her husband and youngest son, she kept one eye on Samuel. He was a deeply wounded boy who needed all the love and support they could give.

Near the end of practice, as the players were winding down and finishing the obligatory 50 free throws in a row, Samuel heard Coach Britt say the magical name, “Ecko.” Samuel turned and saw his old coach stride onto the court, and he ran over for a hug. Ecko said he was passing through and wanted to say hello. Samuel thought it was odd that he had not bothered to call. Coach Britt blew his whistle and told the team to go shower.