The Fall of Saints (3 page)

Lost in our life stories, Rosie and I must have scrubbed every corner of the house twice or three times over.

One evening, almost a year since we had started the process, a social worker delivered a beautiful two-year-old boy to our door. I would have preferred to fetch him but Zack had assured me this was okay too. My eyes were so glued to him that I hardly noticed the messenger; I left it to Zack to deal with her.

He had big round adoring eyes, and I loved him the minute I saw him. His brown skin was a fine balance between white and black. The paperwork said little about his background. His parents were not known; he had been left at a church entrance and taken to the police and then the agency. Judging from his given name—Kobi Yusuf—he could have been born in Garissa or, more likely, Mombasa. American navy soldiers had been training there for years. We toyed with giving him a name from both sides of the family.

Zack’s family history, like mine, was complicated. His grandmother was estranged from his grandfather. She brought up Eha, Zack’s father, single-handedly. Holding Eha, then seven, she had hidden in the forests to avoid the fate of the tens of thousands of Estonians hurled into railroad cars and deported to Siberia or Kazakhstan during the Soviet occupation. Mother and son escaped in a small boat to Germany and finally to the USA, among the early Estonian immigrants.

Eha grew up in the Bronx and later married Edna, an Italian American schoolteacher. A year later, Zack was born to an absentminded father who spent his days mulling over the fate of his own father, whom he never met. Eha spent entire summers traveling in the US and Russia, diving into archives and libraries, examining this and that record, and asking questions. Failure only whetted his desire to know: Searching for his family became an obsession that intensified with years. In search of his lost family, he neglected the living family.

Then Eha stopped his quest and never mentioned his father’s name again. He took to the bottle as if hiding from himself or from whatever he had encountered in his final visit to his homeland. Eha died six months after Edna succumbed to breast cancer. Despite his disgust with his father, Zack may have inherited Eha’s obsession to dig up the truth of his past. He told me that although he always went back to Estonia for business, he also wanted to know more about his grandfather. He never forgave his father enough to want to name a baby after him.

My relationship with my father was one of equal absence. My mother, who raised me, was always vague about him, how or where he lived, so I took it that he had abandoned me. I met him only once, in his office, when I turned eighteen, right before I left for the US, and there was no time to unravel the mystery. Why should I reward him by naming my son after him? In the end, we decided to keep Kobi and turned Yusuf into Joseph, in honor of Joe.

Kobi seemed unfazed by the new environment, as if used to sudden changes. I wondered about all the hardships he had gone through that I would never know. Though it would have been good to know his family past for medical purposes, the absence of known facts was a blessing. I could own him completely. His history would be the one we would give him.

You should have seen Zack and me claiming that he already looked like one of us, till Rose laughed and said that he would soon acquire both our features.

“Haven’t you seen how spouses in time acquire each other’s looks? It is the same with children,” Rose said, an observation that reminded me of David’s story about the twins.

I gave a party to introduce Kobi to Joe, Mark, and Melinda, thanking them all for the role they had played in the adoption process. Mark protested that he had done nothing to deserve the gratitude, but Melinda stopped the game spoiler with a kiss, saying they were always with us in flesh and spirit. Really, Mark did not know how to let others appreciate his generosity, only his ferocity.

Kobi was somewhat aloof at the start, but I had expected this. I knew I would win his trust and his love. I wanted to be a good mother to this child, as my mother had been to me, and I could see that Zack was equally committed. Kobi took over my life. I hardly noticed Zack’s absences.

Though he still traveled, whenever he was home, Zack spent a lot of time with the boy. I enjoyed watching them play soccer or football in the yard. Sometimes they were too engrossed in Frisbee and flying kites to notice me. Melinda joined me a few times and insisted that Kobi had an uncanny resemblance to Zack. “Good,” I said. Rosie’s observation was confirmed when, on another occasion, Joe found me playing with Kobi and said that he bore an uncanny resemblance to me.

Everything I had made me grateful to Zack. Yesterday I was an illegal immigrant. My mother was dead. My father had denied me. My womb would not carry a life. Zack had given me a home, a country, and a child. In return, I inwardly assured him of my devotion. I made sure he had the privacy he needed and kept Kobi away from his office down the hall from the kitchen. It was the least I could do.

A few years later, with the blood and tears of agony flowing all around me, hope and deliverance precariously resting in the Kenyan police force, I would wonder whether it wasn’t a higher order that made me break my pact with myself to stay away from Zack’s office.

3

A
ctually, a rat gave me a reason to finally enter the office. Even before Kobi came into our lives, Zack kept his office locked. I had never needed to enter: I always saw it as the space he needed for himself. After all, I had my little space—which I hardly ever used or locked—and we had an office where we kept papers of common interest. But the little unwelcome guest broke my routine. For a whole week, the creature played tricks, entering at times and in places of its choosing. Sometimes Rosie and Kobi would join me in the chase without success. So I called the exterminators.

Zack and Kobi were out for a drive. The office, which I had left till last, was immaculate. Everything was in its place. A rat would never find something to eat or a corner to hide. I had it fumigated all the same. After writing the exterminator a check, I went back to the office to ensure that everything was back in place. A piece of paper stuck out of a file in one of the drawers. I pulled the file with the intention of retrieving the paper, but instead, the entire folder landed on the floor. And with it, a gun.

I held the thing in my hands briefly: It brought back memories of my brief moment at the shooting range and the encounter with the gunman at Shamrock. Zack obviously had the same love affair with guns as all Americans. I was afraid of guns and quickly put it back in the drawer. More worrisome were the scattered papers, reminiscent of my first encounter with Zack. He might well think I did these things on purpose.

I started to assemble them. As I did, I saw Kobi’s name and a phone number on a piece of paper. I shoved the scrap in my pocket and put the folder back in place. Flustered, I closed the door and went downstairs, and retrieved the piece of paper from my pocket. Besides Kobi’s name and a phone number, there was nothing else on the piece of paper. I paused. The number did not ring a bell. I flipped the piece of paper. Nothing on the back. What had the number to do with my son? Was it the adoption agency’s? Or . . . could it belong to another woman? Curiosity aroused, I picked up the phone, not sure what I would say. Then I put it down. Better to use my cell phone. The number I dialed was currently not available, said the answering robot.

“What is wrong with me?” I muttered to myself. Zack could have been talking about Kobi and scribbled down his name in the process. I felt bad for suspecting Zack of secret telephone liaisons with another woman. He had never given me reason; he had been very open about his affairs before we married, including his stint with Melinda. I had kept my relationship with the man from Ohio to myself. Zack and Melinda had maintained a healthy relationship of mutual respect and friendship. I had erased mine with Sam, not even opening his emails.

Boisterous noise downstairs alerted me that Zack and Kobi had returned. I put the paper in my side drawer, tucked under some other stuff, and went downstairs, a little flustered at my furtive behavior.

“Hi, Mommy, did they find the rat?” Kobi asked when I joined them in the kitchen.

“No, they didn’t but the poison will get him.”

The next day, after I dropped Kobi off at school, I went upstairs, took out the piece of paper, and scrutinized it. I saw some faint writing on the back. I held it against the light, then walked to the window, squinting really hard.

What in the world was Alaska E-S? Zack had never talked about Alaska except in connection with Sarah Palin. I went downstairs and pulled out the directory. There were hundreds of businesses named Alaska. I looked at the paper again, determined to figure out what the other letters were. I could not make them out. Convincing myself that I was seeing a mountain where there was a molehill, I tore up the piece of paper and threw it into the incinerator. I laughed at my paranoia. So absurd. I put the incident out of my mind and resumed my family and social life, which amounted to a party now and then.

One lazy Sunday, I woke up, my head pounding as if someone were inside it playing drums. Zack and I had drunk more than our fair share of alcohol at a party the previous night. I’d hoped that father and son could go to the soccer game without me, but a quick glance at Zack sprawled dead asleep on the bed told me I’d be going with Kobi, without Zack. Kobi was very proud of Dad and Mom as witnesses to his heroics. His team, Park Boys FC, was playing against the formidable Little Giants FC at Macombs Dam Park, across from Yankee Stadium. I swallowed a painkiller, drowned it with liters of water, and forced myself to pack some snacks and juice. I dragged myself alongside an excited five-year-old Kobi, strutting about in his cute little blue uniform.

My car would not start. The battery was dead. I must have left the lights on. I rushed upstairs. Zack was still fast asleep. I scribbled a note:
Honey, took your car, mine won’t start. Call AAA.

Kobi had a way with the ball and scored both of the team’s goals, not unusual for him. One was a spectacular shot from the top right corner of the field. It earned him a roar from the crowd. We decided to celebrate by treating ourselves to some ice cream.

The little shop at Concourse Village East wasn’t far from Zack’s alma mater, the Alfred E. Smith High School, and Kobi was always happy that we got our ice cream from the same place his father had gone to as a boy. I parked on the street next to the shop. Kobi jumped out to get the ice cream. He loved this little responsibility, as it made him feel grown up. I never let on that I could see exactly what was going on right from the car. He had adjusted well and was growing taller by the day. I felt so proud of him.

Briefly, I turned my gaze from Kobi to the car, and it became clear why Zack liked taking my car when we went out. Mine was always clean. Rosie and I saw to it. The condition of his car was a complete contrast to that of his office and clothes. A thin carpet of dust covered the dashboard. Torn McDonald’s and Burger King wrappers lay scattered on the floor and crammed into the ashtray. No wonder his waist had been getting thicker. And couldn’t he at least throw away the napkins? How disgusting, I thought, assuming the thing was soiled with ketchup. I pulled the ashtray, took out the napkin, and stuffed it into a paper cup that had been lying about. I looked at the ashtray again only to see yet another piece of white paper. I tried to remove it, using my index and middle fingers, but it got stuck. I got a hairpin from my handbag and started digging it out from the sides, then pulled again. This time it came out easily. I was about to roll it up when I saw
Alaska Enterprises
and a phone number written on it. Intriguing, I thought. “Enterprises” must be the missing word from the other piece of paper, though the telephone number seemed different. I should have kept a record of the other number.

Kobi was making his way back, balancing the ice cream cups. I had the urge to jump out and assist, but I held back. It would feel so much better for him later, when he narrated how he bought the ice cream by himself and safely brought it to the car. He came around to the driver’s side and handed me my cup of ice cream and his to hold as he jumped into the backseat.

“Thank you, little man,” I said, handing him his.

“You are welcome, Mommy.”

“Now I have to teach you how to drive so you can come out here and get the ice cream,” I joked.

“Mooommy,” he said, laughing as he took a bite, and I joined him.

My latest discovery revived my suspicions of another woman. The following day, I called the new number. This time a voice answered after two rings. It was male; I had expected a female voice. I was confused and just caught the words “export,” “import,” and “Africa.” I hesitated. I felt really silly and blurted the first words that came to my tongue: Could I speak to Zack Sivonen? They did not have a Zack Sivonen in the office, the voice said.

“Oh, wrong number,” I said, and quickly hung up, not even asking their location. I could have kicked myself. Surely I had better things to do, I admonished myself. But
that
was a problem; I didn’t have much better to do. Shopping, except for Kobi, no longer excited me. Rosie did the major housecleaning and even cooked sometimes. Zack and I liked Ghanaian dishes. Gari, peanut soup, and meat reminded me of the
ugali
and
sukuma wiki
in Kenya. Kobi liked okra soup and
kenkey
. But deep inside, I knew that even if I had something that kept me busy all day and night, these pieces of paper and telephone numbers still would have troubled me.

The following day I dropped Kobi off at school and went to meet my close friend Melinda.

4

M
ark had been the only blemish in my friendship with Melinda. It had nothing to do with his remarkable rise from poverty to wealth. His parents entered the US as contract workers under the notorious Bracero Program, which allowed Mexican cheap labor on American farms. “To do the work mostly scorned by Americans,” Mark liked to say. His parents had stayed after the program ended, but they remained trapped in a cycle of poverty from which Mark had been able to break free. His was a story to admire, but his grumpy attitude when we first met at Shamrock and later, at the wedding, had put me off. And yet he had a compassionate and modest side: He had helped us in our search for a baby and would not publicly brag about his role in our happiness.