Джон Гришэм - Sooley

“Not yet.”

“Where do you get your gossip?”

A waiter approached and described the specials. Both ordered tomato salads and grilled trout. As soon as he left, they jumped back into the gossip mill that all coaches found irresistible. Lonnie was ready for a move up and Ecko believed his friend could handle a bigger program, though perhaps not in a Power Five conference. The guy at Richmond was on the ropes, but Lonnie had something bigger in mind. Ecko knew the AD at Creighton and knew he wasn’t happy with their program. The coach at Texas wanted a new contract but the school was balking. And so it went, around the country in half an hour as they ate their salads and schemed of ways to find bigger jobs.

When their entrees arrived, Ecko changed the subject with “What are you going to do with Samuel?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly want the kid, as you might remember.”

“Thank you, again, Coach. Together we probably saved his life.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, if I had not chosen the kid back in April, he would have been at home with his family when their village was raided. Knowing him the way we do, he would have tried to save everyone. He’d probably be dead now.”

Lonnie shook his head and mumbled, “What is wrong with those people?”

“We, those people, are cursed, and we’re not happy unless there are at least two civil wars raging. You gave the kid a scholarship, a dorm room, a team, an education, a chance to play here, his dream. If he had gone home with the team, who knows what would have happened. His village was burned to the ground.”

“What a nightmare. I can’t imagine.”

“I’ll hang around and see him tonight. Why don’t you give him a week off, let him mourn in private.”

“Sure. Whatever. I’ll probably redshirt him anyway, though that’s the last thing I need.”

“So, he’s not lighting it up in practice?”

“Let’s just say his game has not changed in the past two months. He’s a great kid. He fits in. Always a big smile. Plays hard and all that. Can jump out of the gym. There’s just no place to put him right now.”

“Be patient with him. He might surprise you.”

“That’s what you keep saying. And I admit there are moments when he springs up, lifts the ball high, lets it go when he’s forty-five inches off the court, all smooth and fluid and he just sort of hangs there like Michael Jordan, but the damned ball never goes in.”

“That could be a problem.”

“His ball handling has improved a little but he’ll never play at guard.”

“Give him some time. He’s just a kid.”

“They’re all kids, Ecko.”

“They are indeed, but this one is special.”

Murray and Samuel finished unloading a truckload of canned vegetables at a pantry and stopped by the offices of the International Rescue Committee in central Durham. Miss Ida was familiar with its work and mentioned it to Sooley, who researched it online. A Ms. Keyser was expecting the two basketball players from Central.

She gave a quick overview of the IRC’s history and work: It was founded by Albert Einstein in 1933 to help European Jews resettle in the U.S., and had grown into one of the world’s largest humanitarian organizations. It worked in the regions hit hardest by war, persecution, genocide, and natural disasters, and provided shelter, food, and health care for the most vulnerable. In many instances it relocated them in Western countries. In the past forty years, the IRC office in Durham County had helped over eight hundred refugees from twenty-five countries resettle in the area, including eighteen from South Sudan.

“Do you know anyone here from your country?” she asked.

“No.”

“No relatives here in the States?”

“No.”

“The relocation process can be long and difficult. Demand is great, supply is not. U.S. Immigration is currently allowing only five thousand a year into the country from South Sudan. The need is much greater. Not surprisingly, many of the world’s refugees would like to come here. I believe Ida Walker said that you plan to seek citizenship.”

“Yes I do.”

“That’s good. The fact that you’re already here is crucial. Please, don’t even think about going back.”

“He’s not,” Murray said and got a laugh.

She continued, “There is no easy way to get your family here, but your best chance is after you have become a U.S. citizen and can sponsor them. Without a sponsor, it’s almost hopeless.”

“How long will it take?”

She smiled and glanced at her notes. “A long time, Samuel, a very long time. First, you need to finish college. That’s four years.”

Murray interrupted with “Probably five, the way he’s playing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’ll probably redshirt this season, so he might get another year of college.”

“Right. Okay, whatever, but staying in school and graduating are important. Then get a job and start a career. The more success you have here the better your chances of sponsoring your family.”

“That’s not really what I wanted to hear,” Samuel said.

“I know. It’s a long process, even when it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“But they’re in a camp, barely getting enough food and water.”

“Along with many others. Look, I’m happy to open a file and you can call me anytime. You can stop by. You can even volunteer if you’d like. We have a college internship program and we love our students. Ida said you’ve made contact through Doctors Without Borders.”

“I spoke to my mother two days ago through them. Is it possible to send her money?”

“I don’t know but I’ll find out. We have an office in Uganda, in Kampala I believe. Rhino is an established camp and I’m sure we have someone there.”

“I’ve read everything about the camp that’s online. There’s a small market where you can buy food and basics. They have nothing, only one change of clothes from a distribution center in the camp. They sleep on the ground, no blankets. I’d really like to get some money to them.”

She smiled warmly and said, “I’ll figure it out. Call me tomorrow.”

The food trucks were delayed and delayed again, and then they stopped coming. But the lines held firm and continued to grow as desperate people waited in the sun.

Beatrice and the boys left one line and went to another, then another. Rumors were flying that there was food on the west side of the settlement and when they arrived there was a swarm around a United Nations truck. Workers frantically dipped small portions of rice into whatever bowls the people brought. Those with none were simply given two handfuls.

The hunger terrified the refugees because it brought back painful memories from the recent past. They had all been hungry and their primary prayer each day was for enough food to sustain life.

Ninety-seven percent of the water in Rhino Camp was trucked in, and when those trucks too failed to show there was an uneasiness in the streets. Hungry children bawled as their mothers went door-to-door and begged for food. The tent hospitals, all run by foreign NGOs, were inundated with thousands of desperate people pleading for something to eat.

It rained for a week, nonstop, and the gravel highways used by the trucks flooded and washed out, cutting off food, water, and supplies. The dirt streets turned to mud and the rainwater pooled in puddles and began running down the hills. The narrow creeks rose with raw sewage and spilled out of their banks. The tents leaked around the windows and tore along the roofs and before long the deluge sent filthy water running under the floors of tents. The boreholes used for pumping water collapsed under the weight of the softening soil. The outhouses and crude privies filled and flooded and human waste ran free. It rained until everything — every person, every tent, every shanty, every jeep and truck, every field hospital — was soaked and caked with mud.