Diamonds in the Shadow Read Free Page A

takes a long time to empty a large plane. A person seated in the rear cannot run down the aisle and catch up to the people seated in the front. He has to wait for hundreds of passengers to file slowly out. It would be several minutes before the fifth refugee could catch up to them.
    They did not discuss this. They followed the flight attendant off the plane and down a narrow sloping corridor, which they now knew would connect the plane to the terminal. They arrived in a huge room packed with people and seats, chaos and lines. And there stood a man holding a large cardboard sign that read AMABO FAMILY.
    “Welcome,” he said, stepping forward.
    The refugees retreated. The man smiled anyway. “I'm the representative from the Refugee Aid Society. My name is George Neville. I'll be getting you through Immigration and introducing you to your sponsors. Your family is already here, parked and waiting and very excited to meet you.”
    The Africans looked puzzled.
    George Neville did not find this unusual. The distance between Africa and New York City was not just miles. This would be a new world for the Amabos in every way; it was natural for them to be afraid.
    He could not tell who was in charge. Usually in any group of refugees, one person had a little more poise, was a little more articulate, and that person took over. George Neville offered his hand for the father to shake, but the father, a shriveled, tired man in a limp zippered sweat jacket, did not take George's hand.
    Mrs. Amabo—a large, striking woman wearing a high headcloth in a vivid orange print and a floor-length wrap with a fierce geometric pattern—whispered the words on the sign:
“Amabo family.”
    The teenage boy said suddenly, “We are delighted to meet you, Mr. Neville.”
    George was astonished. The boy's speech was beautiful, with a British accent, as if he had been at a boarding school in England, not in a refugee camp in Africa.
    “I,” said the boy, “am Mattu Amabo.”
    Mrs. Amabo looked at the passengers oozing off the plane. “Let us hurry on, Mr. Neville.” Her English was remarkably different from her son's, with an accent so thick George could barely understand her. But civil war separated families. He assumed that the son had lived in some other situation, possibly even in some other country. The family was lucky to have been reunited.
    Hurrying was not something Africans usually did. They did not share the American concept of rushing here and there to arrive someplace at a precise minute. “We don't have to hurry,” George Neville assured her. “We have a lot of lines to wait in.”
    The mother pointed down the vast terminal, where the other passengers were headed. “This way?” she asked, moving forward.
    George quick-stepped to stay beside her. “After such a long flight, you look very fine, Mrs. Amabo.”
    She did not respond. She just walked faster.
    Behind George, the husband and the son cast glances over their shoulders. George did not see this. The daughter trudged along as if she were only half there or were just half a person. George did not see this either.

    Jared's mom had been gripping her cell phone like a revolver. When at last it rang, she nodded excitedly to let everybody know that this was
the
phone call. Then she turned gloomy. “It will be some time before our family gets through Immigration. Be patient, the man said.” Kara Finch had zero patience; her major goal in life was to do everything right now. She was a great maker of lists and schedules timed to the minute—where to be when, and what to do there, or buy there, or see there, and when to get back, and who to take with you. Jared hoped these poor Africans were braced for an American woman who planned to whip them into shape in five minutes or less.
    The huge waiting area had very few seats, as if saying, Keep going—get to your cars—don't stay a minute longer.
    The Finches wandered around and found seats, but not next to each other. Jared was