kin to the woman in our backyard. Young men and old women. Toddlers, babies and teenagers. Most were laden down with odds and ends, pitiful cheap possessions. Battered colanders, empty plastic jugs, tattered tarps. They were moving slowly, as if they had come a long way and were at the end of their energies. Stupefied and silent, they shuffled along, no obvious destination in mind that I could see.
Some of the refugees were wounded. Fresh cuts or scabbed-over ones, flies crawling over them. Some of the wounds were really bad. I didn’t really want the kids to look, but couldn’t quite figure out how to stop them from seeing.
The noise was coming from our neighbors. Everybody was out on their lawns or front steps, or peering from behind curtains, exclaiming and speculating about this strange sight. So far, no one was actually doing anything to help these people, and I was kind of proud that our family seemed to have been the first to offer any aid.
I assumed that someone must have called 911 by now, and that official help was on the way. It was probably best not to interfere with these people, whoever they were, wherever they came from. The authorities would know best what to do.
Still, I was glad the Rowan family had put their best foot forward. We’d probably end up on TV. I wondered if the woman was still sitting in our lawnchair, and if she had thought to help herself to some more hotdogs. There were burgers too.
Just then Emie Stultmeyer burst out of his house. He had obviously worked himself up into a tizzy. He was waving that rusty Korean-War-vintage .45 he likes to take out at parties, and shouting.
“You fucking jungle-bunnies! Stay off my grass! Go back to Africa! C’mon, go back where you came from!”
I felt ashamed. Even if the refugees—and as soon as I had heard the word “Africa,” I recognized them as actual Africans, their faces familiar from a hundred newscasts—even if they didn’t understand English, there was no misinterpreting Ernie’s hostility.
“Stay here, Shirl,” I said. “You too, kids.”
I crossed the street, threading my way among the shambling crowd. I thought I could smell an exotic scent rising off them, like the smoke from brushfires mingled with the sweat of exhaustion. But maybe it was just my imagination.
Maybe the whole thing was just my imagination.
But I didn’t think so.
Ernie was so nervous he pointed the gun in my direction for a second before he recognized me. I wasn’t scared, except maybe for him. That thing would probably misfire, even if he had any bullets for it.
He dropped the barrel as I got closer, and I took the chance to speak.
“That was kind of rough language, Ernie, don’t you think? The kids and all. And what if the Hendersons heard you?”
He looked sheepish, seemed to gain a little more composure. “Well, I guess maybe so, Harry. But I mean—Jesus, man! Look at them! They just keep coming!”
What he said was true. The throng was not thinning out, but actually swelling. Some of the refugees were fanning out now across the lawns. A family was kneeling, drinking from the grassy soup in a wading pool. I could hear sirens in the distance.
I thought it was best to get Ernie’s mind off defending his property.
“Whadda ya say we try to find out where they’re coming from?”
Ernie perked up. “Yeah!”
I got him to shove his gun into his waistband, and we started walking up Junemort against the flow. Other homeowners began following us, including Shirl and the kids. I didn’t object. It was probably no more or less safe at the head of the quiet column of refugees than it was back home.
We only had to go as far as Primrose Circle, the cul-de-sac where the Sarkley twins live. (They had just had a sleepover with Lauren last week.)
In the middle of the circle, a foot or two above the grassy curb-girdled plot right where the Harkleys had planted a rosebush, someone had cut a large hole in the sky. Its edges were ragged, like torn
Some of the refugees were wounded. Fresh cuts or scabbed-over ones, flies crawling over them. Some of the wounds were really bad. I didn’t really want the kids to look, but couldn’t quite figure out how to stop them from seeing.
The noise was coming from our neighbors. Everybody was out on their lawns or front steps, or peering from behind curtains, exclaiming and speculating about this strange sight. So far, no one was actually doing anything to help these people, and I was kind of proud that our family seemed to have been the first to offer any aid.
I assumed that someone must have called 911 by now, and that official help was on the way. It was probably best not to interfere with these people, whoever they were, wherever they came from. The authorities would know best what to do.
Still, I was glad the Rowan family had put their best foot forward. We’d probably end up on TV. I wondered if the woman was still sitting in our lawnchair, and if she had thought to help herself to some more hotdogs. There were burgers too.
Just then Emie Stultmeyer burst out of his house. He had obviously worked himself up into a tizzy. He was waving that rusty Korean-War-vintage .45 he likes to take out at parties, and shouting.
“You fucking jungle-bunnies! Stay off my grass! Go back to Africa! C’mon, go back where you came from!”
I felt ashamed. Even if the refugees—and as soon as I had heard the word “Africa,” I recognized them as actual Africans, their faces familiar from a hundred newscasts—even if they didn’t understand English, there was no misinterpreting Ernie’s hostility.
“Stay here, Shirl,” I said. “You too, kids.”
I crossed the street, threading my way among the shambling crowd. I thought I could smell an exotic scent rising off them, like the smoke from brushfires mingled with the sweat of exhaustion. But maybe it was just my imagination.
Maybe the whole thing was just my imagination.
But I didn’t think so.
Ernie was so nervous he pointed the gun in my direction for a second before he recognized me. I wasn’t scared, except maybe for him. That thing would probably misfire, even if he had any bullets for it.
He dropped the barrel as I got closer, and I took the chance to speak.
“That was kind of rough language, Ernie, don’t you think? The kids and all. And what if the Hendersons heard you?”
He looked sheepish, seemed to gain a little more composure. “Well, I guess maybe so, Harry. But I mean—Jesus, man! Look at them! They just keep coming!”
What he said was true. The throng was not thinning out, but actually swelling. Some of the refugees were fanning out now across the lawns. A family was kneeling, drinking from the grassy soup in a wading pool. I could hear sirens in the distance.
I thought it was best to get Ernie’s mind off defending his property.
“Whadda ya say we try to find out where they’re coming from?”
Ernie perked up. “Yeah!”
I got him to shove his gun into his waistband, and we started walking up Junemort against the flow. Other homeowners began following us, including Shirl and the kids. I didn’t object. It was probably no more or less safe at the head of the quiet column of refugees than it was back home.
We only had to go as far as Primrose Circle, the cul-de-sac where the Sarkley twins live. (They had just had a sleepover with Lauren last week.)
In the middle of the circle, a foot or two above the grassy curb-girdled plot right where the Harkleys had planted a rosebush, someone had cut a large hole in the sky. Its edges were ragged, like torn
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