Desert Run by Betty Webb Read Free Book Online Page B

Ethiopian not yet at work, greeted me with a polite gravity. After I showed him Rada’s note, he led me into a tiny bedroom and gestured toward the bottom level of one of the two bunk beds. “This where Rada sleep.” Then he tapped on a plastic storage container pushed against the opposite wall. “This where he keep clothing.” He crossed the room to a scuffed chest and opened one of the drawers. “This is drawer for his papers. When police take him, I put paycheck here, keep safe.” Before handing the check over, he read Rada’s note again. “Yes, he says to give to you. That Rada’s signing, I recognize from back of check. So I give. But you send to wife. She need. ”
    The passion in his voice hinted of yet another family left behind, so I assured him I would wire the money to Addis Ababa immediately. “By the way, Mr. Hadaradi, why didn’t Rada bring his family with him when he immigrated?”
    Hadaradi looked away for a brief moment, but not before I saw sadness slip over his face. “Like rest of us, Rada only have money for one person to come. Before coming, we all move families from north, where is still fighting, and now we save up to bring families over.”
    â€œFighting?”
    Anger replaced sadness. “Is big war over border. Many die. My father, my uncle, two brothers, all dead. Like Rada’s father and brothers.”
    I vaguely remembered a CNN report about Ethiopia’s border war with Eritrea. Not being personally affected by other than a brief stab of pity for everyone concerned, it had then slipped from my mind. “You guys are political refugees?”
    â€œU.S. not worry about our war. We win lottery for green cards. Now all make big money. Can afford to bring family soon, be happy. Family is life. Without family, life is nothing.”
    Not being able to remember my own family, I wouldn’t know. But “big money”? Judging from the looks of the Ethiopians’ apartment, they didn’t even make medium money, and what little they did, they never spent on themselves. But that’s the immigrant life. Years of toil and sacrifice for their children, who, when they grew up, were ashamed of their parents’ accents. I wondered about my own family and what they might have sacrificed for me. But whatever they had done or not done was blurred forever behind the scar tissue on my forehead. My parents only emerged at night, in pieces of memory-nightmares.
    I wondered if all the Ethiopians had immigrated together. “Mr. Hadaradi, did you know Rada in Addis Ababa?”
    â€œNo. I come here two years ago from little village to south. Rada comes later. I meet him at Ethiopian Church, at what they call Social Evening. Rada not go to church but that OK.”
    â€œI didn’t know there was an Ethiopian church in Mesa.”
    Hadaradi shook his head. “Phoenix. I think we are only Ethiopians in Mesa. Some Sudanese here, some Somalians. Many Mormons.” He gave me his first smile.
    I appreciated his attempt at levity, but needed to find out what, if anything, Tesema had said to his roommates about Ernst. “When Rada…”
    He interrupted me by taking keys out of his pocket and walking toward the door. “No time. I only home to watch policemen look around, keep our things safe. Now I due at other job.”
    â€œOther job?”
    â€œNeed three. All of us, even Rada. He help take care of four people. Almost never sleep. You go now, please. Have to lock apartment.”
    Unlike Tesema, Hadaradi didn’t have a car, so I dropped him off in front of the Burger King where he worked. From there, I went to Tesema’s bank, where a bank officer helped me through the laborious process of international wire transfers. Good deed accomplished, I drove back to Desert Investigations, thinking hard all the way. Four clients and little sleep. I wondered how irritable I might feel if I were exhausted, yet