Jakarta Missing by Jane Kurtz Page A

school—”
    â€œBecause she has to grab on to her education,” Dakar said.
    â€œBecause she has to grab on to her education. And you tell her to watch out for my son, Pharo, when she gets to school.”
    Dakar was surprised. “You have a kid who goes to high school?”
    The cook chuckled.
    â€œYou have a son named Pharaoh? Why didn’t you give him a better name than that?”
    The cook scooped tomato paste out of a can with her fingers. “When that boy was born, I called him Moses, but my husband never could tolerate that name. He said, ‘If he’s Moses, he’s in charge of freeing other people. But who’s ever going to free this boy from the bondage?’ My husband had come to study at the university, but now he was homesick and tired of people’s attitudes. So we pushed and pulled that poor baby’s name back and forth, back and forth. I called him Moses. My husband took to calling him Pharo, just to make me mad, I b’lieve.”
    Dakar tried to imagine the cook sitting in a living room in this picket fence town, arguing with her husband.
    â€œWell, the homesickness weighed on my husband and weighed on him. Finally he just quit school. He went back home. My heart was like wax then. It was melted within my breast. But all I said was, ‘Good. I can call my boy Moses without any complaints now.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you go, too?” Dakar asked.
    The cook slid the pizza on a pan. “Well, there was my vow not to put this body onto an airplane again. More so, I wanted my boy to grow up in a place where he could grab hold of an education. Still, I did fret. Finally, I opened my Bible and put my finger on the page to see if God would send me a message directly.”
    Dakar nodded. She knew people who did that. A girl in Egypt said her grandfather used to do the same thing with the Koran.
    â€œMy finger fell on ‘God is the anchor of my soul.’ That’s a message, I said. My body is meant to stay put and not go flopping all around the world.”
    Dakar shook her head dubiously. “I don’t know. The Bible says God is light, too. Light flickers all around.”
    â€œIt doesn’t go leaping from the candle,” the cook said. “So we stayed put. But we started getting the letters. It was always Pharo this and Pharo that. And one day when I called my little boy Moses, he said, ‘My name is Pharo.’ And I thought, well, let him have what’s left from his daddy.”
    The bell rang. The cook pointed one doughy finger at the door.
    â€œOkay,” Dakar said. “I’m going. And I’ll tell Jakarta.”
    Having something to tell Jakarta helped the day go faster. In math class Melanie tossed a note over when the teacher wasn’t looking. “Where were you?” it said. “My cousin says everyone is très curious about Jakarta.”
    Dakar had never passed a note in class before. “Sorry,” she scribbled. “Come over for supper. My mom won’t care. At least you can meet Jakarta.” Her face itched as she waited for the right moment to toss the note back. Dakar, the former Good Kid, the former Follower, was now also a note tosser.
    When they opened the door of the house, a hot, peppery smell rushed out—a smell of Maji. Dakar gave a luxurious sigh, feeling like a little kid.
    â€œWhat is it?” Melanie asked. “What’s that smell?”
    â€œCome on,” Dakar said, heading for the kitchen. “You’ll see.”
    Mom looked up and swiped at her sweaty face. “You’re Melanie,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here. We need lots and lots of onions chopped. Both of you can help.”
    She looked great, Dakar thought with a clunk of relief, handing a knife to Melanie and grabbing one for herself. “How did you manage Maji food?”
    â€œJakarta smuggled the injera and the bere bere pepper out for a surprise.