The Missing American Page 7

  He was therefore quite nervous at first when Josephine arrived—not as ready as he had wanted to be. He was split between conversing with her and finishing up the meal.

  “Can I help at all, Gordon?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s almost ready, actually.” He hesitated and then gave in. “Would you mind checking the fufu though?”

  She was happy to do so. “A little more water and stirring,” she advised.

  He thought how achingly lovely she was in a dark, formfitting outfit and heels. He had a thing for heels.

  “This is a beautiful kitchen,” she remarked, as she shaped the fufu into a smooth, glutinous mass.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  They ate in the dining room. Gordon dimmed the lights and lit two candles. Josephine nodded in approval after trying her first mouthful. “You have really tried,” she said, the Ghanaian way of saying you’ve done a terrific job.

  “Thank you,” he said. His chest was swelling with pride. He felt so good that she was here and that he had made this special meal for their mutual enjoyment.

  “So, are you flying directly to Accra?” Gordon asked her as they tucked in. It really did taste good.

  “No,” she replied, taking a dainty spoonful. “I’ll stop in the UK.”

  “Ah. To see friends?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And to see our son, Kwame.”

  “Is he in school there?”

  She smiled a little. “Actually, it’s an institution called Warwickshire Home. Kwame is autistic. He’s been there for many years.”

  “Oh. How often do you get to see him?”

  “Three or four times a year,” Josephine said. “I still feel guilty that it couldn’t be more often, but you see, in Ghana he wouldn’t receive adequate care. James—my husband—and I made the decision long ago to move him to the UK.”

  “I see,” Gordon said, studying her and trying to read her emotions. A lot was there, but he sensed she was keeping it shrouded. “How is Kwame doing?”

  “As well as can be expected,” she said, more happily. “He talks somewhat now. For years, he could not.”

  “That must have been a joyful achievement for him,” Gordon said, pausing from eating.

  Josephine looked at him with appreciation. “You’re the first person who has ever said that—as if you know him. Because it was joyful. He had a big, big smile. Most people just say, ‘oh, great,’ or something inane like that.”

  Gordon nodded. “That’s people for you.” He was feeling drawn to her like a powerful magnetic force. “I would love to meet Kwame.”

  “Really?” Josephine said. “You would like each other. James doesn’t ever talk about him.”

  “Oh,” Gordon said.

  She nodded. “Yes. Once Kwame was out of his sight in England, he never wanted to see him again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gordon said. “That must be hard on you.”

  “James is a good man,” Josephine said, “but I find his feelings about Kwame hurtful.”

  “Yes,” Gordon said.

  “It may be why I’m dedicated to supporting institutions in Ghana that cater to the mentally and physically disabled,” she said. “I’m a patron of a center for autistic children in Accra. I helped the owner set it up about four years ago. One of the reasons I’ve been here in DC is to lobby for funding.”

  “I see.” He hesitated. “Can I help out?”

  “I would love that,” she said with fervor. “Whatever is in your heart, Gordon. Any donation is welcome. I’ll text you the information on the center.”

  “Please do. I’d love to participate.”

  “Thank you.”

  They both wanted to move on to more lighthearted conversation, and they did. Gordon regaled her with tales of his exploits and adventures with Regina when he was a young, carefree fool in Ghana. Josephine laughed long and hard all the way through the lemon chiffon dessert, which Gordon had not made. He offered Josephine more wine, but she had had enough.

  Against his repeated objections, she insisted on clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, and generally cleaning up while he made coffee. “It’s the least I could do,” she said. By now she had kicked off her heels and was padding around in her stockinged feet.

  He put a record—soft jazz—on a very expensive turntable.

  “My goodness,” Josephine said, staring at it. “A long time since I’ve seen one of those.”

  “I’m a die-hard vinyl lover,” Gordon told her. “Old-fashioned and proud of it.”

  They sat together on the sofa, talking and sipping coffee.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said to her, taking her hand. “You’ve made me very happy.”

  “It’s been wonderful,” she said.

  They kissed for a while. When he stood up with his hand outstretched, she took it and followed him to the bedroom. The jazz played as they undressed.

  “Condom?” she murmured.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good boy,” she said, and they both giggled.

  They caressed each other, and she was impressed by his size.

  “Not bad for a white boy?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  He used his lips and tongue to pleasure her and she gasped and said she had never had that done before. He was happy to believe it, even if it wasn’t true.

  Wrapped around his back, her thighs were marvelously powerful, like Regina’s. Gordon remembered now what it had been like in those days long ago. The glory and the ecstasy of being with an African woman. No comparison.

  SIXTEEN

  January 26, Heathrow, London

  Duty free shops in US airports were okay, but Josephine preferred the magic of the European and UK versions. She picked up Belgian chocolates, German pastries, French perfumes, English treacle tarts, a couple of high-end handbags, and gifts her two girls had specifically requested.

  Then she settled into the opulent British Airways business class lounge to wait for her flight, helping herself to breakfast, coffee, and sinful desserts.

  Like other well-off people, Josephine was always aware of a level of comfort wrapping around her like a warm, waterproof coat impervious to the elements. Through James, the Akrofis were blessed with affluence. He provided for them with a resolute sense of duty. So, it wasn’t without some guilt that Josephine thought about the extraordinary, lust-drenched time she had spent with Gordon four nights ago. But she rationalized it as a one-off in a foreign land, not at all germane to her “real life” in Ghana. She wasn’t having a true affair. Before Gordon, she hadn’t had any good sex in several years. James wasn’t exactly the poster boy for virility—not anymore, at least, and he would never pleasure her orally the way Gordon had done. Ghanaian men had a generally lousy reputation when it came to foreplay, and as for postcoital cuddling, that would happen when snow fell at the equator. Regina had certainly known what she was doing when she married Gordon, Josephine reflected.

  In addition, whereas Gordon had expressed a wish to meet Kwame, James had shunned the child, probably because his ingrained traditional beliefs about children like Kwame—“devil children” and the like. As Josephine had told Gordon, this was the most wounding aspect of her marriage to James.

  Josephine had two life regrets, both related to childbirth. Kwame was the first. That was more of a misfortune than a mistake. In the first postpartum weeks and months, it wasn’t clear anything was amiss, but by a year old, Kwame had missed several milestones. He didn’t return anyone’s gaze, and sometimes he had bizarre bouts of high-pitched, intense screaming.

  Their pediatrician brought up the specter of autism one day, from which James and Josephine recoiled with horror and outright dismissal. As many well-off Ghanaians do when faced with a dire medical question, James and Josephine took off with Kwame to the UK for an evaluation a
nd second opinion on the child’s conditions. After administering a battery of tests, the Harley Street consultant pronounced the verdict: “I’m afraid I have rather bad news, Mr. and Mrs. Akrofi,” he told them with perfect, upper-class inflection. “Your little boy is autistic.”

  The kind of care Kwame would need—physical, psychological, emotional—for the best possible outcome for his life was barely available in Ghana. Accra had three autism centers at the most. So, the Akrofis never brought Kwame back with them to Ghana. Josephine’s brother, who had lived in England for decades and was a UK citizen, agreed to become the boy’s legal guardian. Even though it was for the best that Kwame stayed in England, the pain Josephine felt about not being able to take care of her own son never really left her.

  The second lament was without question a life mistake. Josephine had been very young back then and she didn’t realize—or was in denial over the possibility—that she was pregnant until the fifth month. She went on to have the baby boy, but it was really Josephine’s sister who ended up rearing him. Josephine rarely saw him or his father. She had never revealed to James that she had had a child out of wedlock. She was ashamed of it. As far as Josephine was concerned, that would remain a secret forever.

  Her other two children with James were a success story, however. Two girls, utterly brilliant throughout their schooling, one finishing law and the other starting medical school. A doctor and a lawyer in the family. Nothing could be more perfect than that.

  SEVENTEEN

  January 26, Accra, Ghana

  Apart from a minor disturbance back in economy, which Josephine barely heard as she slept in her business class flat bed, the flight into Accra was uneventful. Night had fallen but the new international Terminal 3 was lit up and glistening like a crystal palace. Josephine breezed through VIP customs. Her driver was waiting for her on the other side, using his special pass to enter a normally restricted area.

  From the airport, Josephine’s 4×4 vehicle with flashing lights got her back home more quickly than it would mere mortals and she pulled into the guarded compound of the Akrofi home within an hour of landing.

  While the houseboy took the luggage in, James came out to meet her. “How are you, love?” he said, hugging her and giving her a robust kiss on the cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too, love,” she said.

  “Tired after the long trip?”

  “Just a little.”

  They held hands as they went into the house. “If you’re hungry, Araba has made something,” James told her.

  “Maybe in an hour or so,” Josephine said, slipping her heels off in the foyer. Her feet ached and it felt so good to walk in her stockings. With a sigh of relief, she flopped onto the sofa in the sitting room as Araba, the diminutive maid appeared.

  “Good evening, madam. You are welcome.”

  “Thank you, Araba.”

  “Please, will you take something to eat?”

  “Just bring me some water with ice. Be sure it’s Bel-Aqua. I can’t drink that awful Voltic.” She looked pointedly at James, but he only laughed. They each swore by their favorite brands of bottled water and claimed they could taste the difference.

  “Yes, madam.”

  James didn’t want anything, and Araba left.

  “So great to see you, Josie,” he said, leaning over to kiss her again. “Did you have a successful trip?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said, rubbing her feet.

  “Here, let me do that,” he said, swinging her feet into his lap. “You just relax.”

  “Ah, thank you so much,” she said. James really did do a good massage. “I got at least three people to pledge to the Autism Foundation and a couple more of them probably will once I get back to them tomorrow to remind them.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I met them at the party Herbert had at the Embassy.”

  “Party?”

  “Yes, James. I texted you about it. Do you even read my messages?”

  “But of course I do, my darling queen.”

  She shot him a look askance, sitting up again as Araba brought her water with ice. “What’s new in your world?” she asked.

  “Nothing, really. J. K. and I have been talking a lot. He’s going full speed ahead with his anti-corruption scheme, and now that Evans-Aidoo is dead, J. K. probably has the election in the palm of his hand. Aidoo’s running mate is very weak.”

  “Yes, I understand.” Josephine hesitated. “I think you mentioned once that J. K. is turning more of his attention to the higher echelons in the police?”

  “Right,” he said, searching her face. “You look worried.”

  “No, not really,” she said, which wasn’t true. “Just wonder if it will affect what we do and how we do it.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Things are pretty secure.”

  “Okay then.” Josephine was persuaded, at least for now. “And the search for Aidoo’s killer? How is that going?”

  “Not very well,” James said. “The police seem to have no leads at all.”

  They were quiet for a moment. At length, Josephine spoke. “Love? I was thinking. If I was to achieve my dream of the Autism Center taking in a few boarders and coming up to world standard, would you consider having Kwame moved from England back here?”

  He frowned. “Why would you even consider that? How would we ever provide the same standard of care? And you know how much he depends on a set routine for peace of mind. Come on, Josie.” He moved closer and put his arms around her. “We’ve done the best for him. He’s safe and secure where he is. And that’s what we should care about most.”

  What James said made intellectual sense, but it failed to assuage the guilt eating at Josephine’s soul.

  EIGHTEEN

  February 5, Washington, DC

  Derek called out from the bottom of the stairs. “Dad?”

  No reply came. Derek went up to his father’s room, but it was empty. He crossed to the window and saw his father dozing off in a deck chair in the solarium below. A weak winter sun had emerged. As Derek turned to leave the room, the open screen of Gordon’s desktop caught his eye. It was Dad’s Widows & Widowers Facebook page with a Messenger window open at the bottom right. Derek lingered, sneaking a look. He shouldn’t be infringing on his father’s privacy like this, and for an instant, Derek’s curiosity clashed with guilt. Curiosity won. The last message in the window was from someone called Helena Barfour at 2:16 p.m., about forty minutes ago: How are you today, my love?

  Gordon, presumably away from the computer at the time, hadn’t yet responded. But what drew Derek’s attention were the antecedent messages. Inexorably drawn in, he scrolled up farther, and farther still. “What the fuck,” he muttered.

  Pulling away as he caught the sound of his father’s footsteps downstairs, Derek left the room to the balustrade in the hallway. “Hey, Dad.”

  Gordon emerged from the kitchen and looked up. “Oh, hi, son. Didn’t know you were here. I was out back.”

  “Yeah, I saw you taking a nap.” Derek went downstairs and joined his father.

  “Coffee?” Gordon offered.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  They sat at the center counter in the kitchen and talked about this and that, but Derek was preoccupied with what he had just seen. “So, Dad,” he began when a pause in the conversation gave him the chance, “when I came in, I went upstairs looking for you, and that Widowers Facebook page was open on your computer.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Gordon said. “Forgot to close it. What about it?”

  “Look, what’s on there is your business, and you know I don’t make it a habit to pry.”

  “But on this occasion, you did?”

  “Yeah,” Derek admitted. “On your Messenger—someone called Helena? Who’s that?”

  “Just a Facebook friend,” Gordon said.
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  “Okay, but you’re sending money to her?”

  “So, what, you went through my entire conversation with her?” Gordon said tersely.

  “Not that I feel good about it,” Derek said, “but it’s done now, and I can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube. I mean, what’s the story with this Helena? Where is she located?”

  “In Ghana.”

  “In Ghana!” Derek exclaimed.

  “Yeah—Accra.”

  “But the money, Dad? What’s with that?”

  “Listen, we’ve been talking for a couple months now, okay?” Gordon said, defensiveness creeping into his voice. “She’s a wonderful lady—understanding, gracious. I spend all my time helping people out on Facebook, but there’s no one there who listens to me when I want to pour my heart out. No one.”

  “Dad,” Derek said, with a slight quiver in his voice, “you’ve got me. I don’t count?”

  “Of course you do,” Gordon said, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m talking about the Facebook people and my role in the group. I’m like some big hero, but they gotta realize I’m made of flesh and blood too. So, sue me if there’s someone like Helena who not only shares feelings with me but allows me to vent.”

  “But I asked you before if you ever felt overwhelmed with this Facebook mentoring you do and you made it sound like you were doing just fine.”

  “I did,” Gordon conceded. “Bravado, I guess.”

  “But back to the money,” Derek said. He’d allowed the discussion to veer off. “You’ve sent this Helena or whoever something like, what, a couple thousand dollars by now?”

  “Her sister was in a car crash—got banged up pretty bad,” Gordon explained. “She can’t get surgery unless they produce cash up front. You know how it is in Ghana. We’ve been there, right?”

  “What, she doesn’t have family? They can’t put some money together? What does Helena do for a living?”

  “Assistant manager at a restaurant,” Gordon said, taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t know about the rest of her family, but Helena’s not earning the kind of money that she could access emergency funds. So, I offered to help. Look, it’s really tough for people out there.”