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Chapter Thirty-One – Tank
The minute I see the dark green gates of the Walter Forest Home for Boys, I feel the smile spread across my face. It’s been three weeks, and the pain over losing Jess and our baby still feels like a branding iron to the chest, but being here at the home gives me something positive to focus on.
Upon arriving in South Africa, the kids were whipped off to the Walter Forest Boys’ Home. Even the little girl was allowed to stay when I refused to let the kids be split. The lead counselor, Brandon, was cool and let us all stay together. He knew subjecting the kids to a split as well as more strangers on top of a new country would be tough and suggested we take the cottage the counselors used at the back of the house. The paperwork came through in a few days, and the grandmother came to fetch the kids.
Seeing the way she held her grandbabies and cried warmed my heart, and I instantly knew they were going to be okay. Brandon would continue to have weekly visits with the family for a year, and I know if he felt like anything untoward was going on, he’d get those kids to safety in minutes. But seeing how the grandmother was with the kids and how comfortable they were by the end of the afternoon made me feel confident that things would work out great. Their grandmother had a bunch of videos on her phone of their mother when she was younger, just before she was taken, and I guess that helped.
Since the kids left, I’ve been at a bit of a loss. Major Collins had called to say that what I’d stumbled on was one of Abner Omar Elmi’s biggest trafficking rings. He preys on poor families. Parents are actually selling their own kids to survive.
Omar Elmi’s “friend”—one of the suits—led the authorities to a warehouse where they found over a hundred and fifty kids. It turned out there was more than the one warehouse that the second suit copped to. My impulsive actions had reaped some pretty big rewards.
I got some rewards, too, even better than being let off the hook for my actions in Somalia. In the few days it had taken for the Coetzee family to be reunited. I’d made friends with a couple of other kids. Especially Israel, an eight-year-old boy who just wormed his way into my heart.
It was school break for the kids in South Africa, and Brandon had mentioned they were running a holiday program for the kids and asked if I wouldn’t mind helping out. To be honest, I don’t think they really were short-staffed. They had an amazing crew of volunteers—I guess having Oscar-nominated Kevin Peyton on the board didn’t hurt—but I figure he knew I was like a lost fart in a thunderstorm and took pity on me. So here I am.
Today was arts and crafts day, and although there is nothing artsy about me, I figured why the hell not. The worst that could happen is I’d probably just leave this evening covered in glitter glue.
I’m not even out of the car yet, and Israel is at my door, beaming at me.
“Will you come do arts and crafts with me?” Israel asks.
How can I say no to his pleading eyes? “Sure, buddy. What’s in the cards today?”
“Knitting.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.I need to remember to ask kids what I’m signing up for before I just say yes. A couple of days ago, I found myself walking the plank into the pool. Thank God spring in South Africa is pretty warm.
“Uh, I can’t knit. How about if I watch you do it?”
“That’s okay, I couldn’t knit either, but Miss Claire’s gran came to teach us how. She said all boys should know how to knit, just like all girls should know how to fix a car. She also said it helps you to relax. You look so sad all the time, like I was before I started knitting. I thought maybe knitting would let you get your feelings out. Getting them out helps make them feel not so big. At least that’s what Brandon says.”
Fuck, this kid is perceptive.
“Alright, you can teach me. But just remember I’ve got big hands, so we have to go slow.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the great room, and I have a tangled mess that looks like someone’s insides attached to my needles.
“Keep going, Uncle Tank. You’re getting it.”
“Buddy, I think I’m gonna have to quit while I’m ahead.”
“Do you want to talk about what’s making you sad?”
No, I’m definitely not gonna spill my guts about how I blew the best thing that ever happened to me ’cause I’m a fucking coward who doesn’t want to talk about my feelings to anyone. Especially to a kid that’s gone through the worst atrocities I can think of.
“In my last home, the lady was nice. Her name was Melody, and whenever she knitted, I knew we were safe. She’d knit, and I’d sit on the floor and color. I always knew when the bad men were coming because she’d hide her knitting and we’d clean the house. Miss Melody’s house was always clean, but when the bad men came, she was extra clean.” Israel knits another row in his yellow yarn like he’s talking about a Sunday picnic at the park. “Then the bath time would come, and she’d scrub me with Dettol, and I knew it wasn’t going to be okay.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I feel like I’m choking on it, or my racing heart is trying to escape from my chest. I don’t know which. My fingers continue to make a monstrosity out of the yarn as if they knew I had to act as normal as my racing heart and sweaty palms would allow.
Israel looks over at my work. “Uh oh, you dropped a stitch.” He takes my needles from me, and I’m fucking grateful he can’t see how much I’m shaking. “There, all better,” he says and hands me back my yarn.
“Then they would come. The man and his friends would look at me without clothes on, and if I didn’t do what they said, they’d beat Miss Melody. She was always kind to me, and I didn’t want them to hurt her, so I did what they told me to do. Even if it made me feel bad.”
How the fuck does he talk about this like he’s giving me an update on the weather and not the evilest thing that could ever happen to another human being? Like the motherfuckers who turned his safe haven into a place to be scared of don’t deserve to be set on fire. I think I’m going to snap this knitting needle in splinters if I squeeze it any harder.
“You have to hold the needles softly, or your stitches will get tighter.”
I don’t speak. I can’t talk because I’m focused on getting my blood pressure under control. The last thing I need to do is make this harder for Israel, and reacting the wrong way right now could trigger him or cause something equally catastrophic.
