Pasadena, California
Wednesday, January 20, 1999

Careening toward the brightly lit pizza stand, the bicyclist scattered the line of waiting parents and children and smashed into the generator. Shards of glass exploded and tinkled in the sudden dark as he jammed on his brakes. He hurtled over the gravel into Tapiwa Moyo, who shielded his four-year-old son, Farai. The impact with concrete killed Tapiwa instantly. But at first, in the darkness, no one knew this.

A moment earlier, Sue Bowles, a parent from the nearby Pasadena Child Development Center, was standing behind Tapiwa in the line, her eyes on the laughing boy looking up at his father. Now her senses filled with screams and cries.

She groped for the boy but encountered a sickening void. Farai Moyo was gone.

Pasadena Child Development Center
Tuesday, January 12, 1999

Angie's voice rose at the end of each sentence. "Something different about the way the gate opened in the dark, Hannah, but I couldn't see clearly enough to tell what it was? I think it was something about the sound of the latch? I noticed it, but didn't pay attention, know what I mean? I was planning how I'd use the time before six thirty to set up the room for the kids."

It was six in the morning in the four-year-olds' building at the Pasadena Child Development Center, and the center's director, Hannah Cooper, had arrived early for some quiet work time, but Angie called to her and she'd come right over. Sitting low on a child's chair, she looked up at Angie now, listening deeply, understanding her employee's need to release her agitation. A grandmother in her mid-fifties, Hannah had worked with young children and their families all her adult life. Lines ran from the corners of her mouth like backward quotation marks, etched by sadness as well as laughter. Beneath her short gray curls her alert, deep-set blue eyes looked out at her world.

She took in the sight of Angie leaning against the children's cubbies, her hands bracing her limp body, all her usual vibrancy drained by her need to talk. Though at fifty-five Angie was a few years older than Hannah, her hair was still a deep brown, and she wore it long and straggly. It emphasized her customary pallor, and today the pallor verged on green.

"Besides my set-up jobs like taking the kids' chairs off the tables and opening the shades—I open them first thing I come in, even when it's dark?—I had something else in mind. Like I said, I was planning something fresh for the kids—that's why I came in a little before six. That way I have a little more than half an hour."

Hannah opened her mouth to respond, but Angie continued without pause, her chatter streaming like a freeway with no onramps. Her voice was shrill and wobbly, and her words came so fast Hannah had to strain to pick them out.

"Some of the teachers think just a few crayons and some paper's enough? Of course when the kids first arrive, it's true they're usually still sleepy, they don't want much stimulation. They won't eat breakfast at home half the time. Heck, a lot of parents don't eat breakfast either! The kids aren't combed, sometimes they're still in their pj's—not ready for some huge super-activity —like, say, making pretzels from scratch—"

Angie laughed at the very idea, then bowed her head and closed her eyes, and Hannah knew she wished she could stay with this part of the story.

"Go on, Angie," she urged gently.

"Well, I guess I'm getting away from telling you what happened. I was trying to say that just the same old box of crayons and the same old recycled eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper that parents bring from their offices—well, that's not enough. The kids deserve a little variety, a little imagination, and it helps them ease into their day too. Anyone should be able to see that.

"Not to badmouth anybody, but some of the teachers here just don't seem to get it? Maybe it's because I have kids of my own, I remember what it felt like to coax my own sleepy boys to wake up. Oh God, I wish I could have afforded to send them here instead of leaving them with my grandma... but that's off the subject." She set her mouth into a resolute line.

Outside, rain was falling, muffling the sound of traffic on Del Monte Boulevard half a block away and creating a protected cave-like feeling around the two women talking in the dim, otherwise empty classroom.

"So I was focusing on something different for this early part of the morning, maybe those large leaves we collected on our walk yesterday?—I could put those out and the kids could draw around them, even cut out the shapes they made." Her voice continued to rise at the end of her sentences, as if pleading for Hannah to understand.

"I tell you Hannah, I get carried away with this kind of stuff! I can't believe you pay me to do it. It's so much fun. Oh, this was going to be so much better than just a few crayons and some old paper—

"Please Angie," Hannah broke in at last, "tell me about the emergency. I want to help."

Angie took a breath. "Well...I went out to the play yard to get the leaves from one of the outdoor cupboards where we stored them yesterday. It was a little lighter, the sky overcast?— and a wind came up, maybe the start of a Santa Ana. The kids love windy days, but they always make me feel anxious. My feelings come up, know what I mean?

"Please go on, dear. I want to know."

"I stepped around some puddles to get to the storage cupboard. My sneakers are old, so getting them muddy didn't matter, but I had hoped to keep them as dry as possible and not have to scrape them off before I went back in the building." She looked straight down into her director's eyes. Tears threatened, and her chest rose with a deep inhalation.

"Oh God, Hannah, my foot squished against something soft, and I felt so weird, like I had stepped on a big slug with bumps in it? When I looked down I saw footprints all around and this muddy, bloody, furry shape. Such a shock! It was
Henry—you know Henry—one of our pet rabbits here in the four-year-olds' yard? The cage torn open, the door dangled on one hinge. Whoever did it didn't need to yank it like that—you know we don't padlock those cages. Mabel, the other rabbit, miserable in the back of the cage, shivering." Angie snuffled, rummaged in her pocket for a tissue, and blew her nose.

Then she raised her chin, looked straight at Hannah again, and said in a fi rmer tone, "I don't mind telling you, Hannah, I wanted to run. My whole world spun. In just one second, everything changed."

Hannah rose and held Angie close. "I'm so sorry this happened to you," she murmured in a shaky voice, close to tears herself. She remembered another child care center where almost the same thing had happened—rabbits and guinea pigs killed during the night. What was it about innocent places that seemed to attract violence?

"People can be twisted and do ugly things." She clicked her tongue. Then she released Angie and went outside to inspect the limp body next to the animal cages along the side of the children's play yard.

Angie joined her, handing her a box. They laid Henry in it on his side and adjusted his twisted little body so it appeared straight and relaxed. Pets died of natural causes at the center from time to time, and the staff response had been worked out years earlier. The children would be told that the animal had died and allowed to see and even stroke their pet's body—with supervised hand washing immediately afterward, of course. The regular group meetings of staff and children during this day would touch on Henry's death, and the children would be encouraged to say what they felt. At the end of the day, Hannah or one of the staff would take the body to the local Humane Society for disposal. For the next several days, even weeks, the children would mention Henry and staff would respond sympathetically and creatively.

Now Angie was standing taller. Her eyes shone as she mapped out for Hannah the new Henry-centered curriculum for the day. "Farai was especially fond of Henry," she told Hannah. "I'll need to keep an eye out for him. This will be
hard for him. But with Farai ...I think I know something that will help." And she busied herself with pulling out supplies for a discussion and drawing session about Henry, and about all rabbits, later that morning.

"You know, Angie," Hannah said, "I was wondering if you were up to being with the kids this morning, but it looks as if you're together again—and thinking of their needs as usual. You are one strong lady!" She hugged Angie again, feeling her own tears welling. "But watch yourself, my dear. If you feel wobbly, I want you to go home for a hot bath, and we'll get a substitute for your group. Agreed?"

"I'll be okay, Hannah. I know I will."

Hannah herself experienced a renewed surge of strength. This work could break her heart and make her feel such joy and hope for the human race, all in the same moment sometimes. But Angie had been right earlier. Everything had changed. When a pet rabbit is slain in the night outside its own cage, it's the opposite of sharing, the opposite of taking turns, the opposite of talking things through. Their little world of trustbuilding had been violated. It felt like a terrible intrusion into what should be the safest of all worlds.

***

Eleven hours later, the parents had picked up the last of their children. As Hannah tidied the children's cubbies, she could clearly hear Angie's voice on the phone across the room. Angie gave her a wave and continued talking. "So that's what happened, Mom. Awful, but we got through it. The kids wanted me to get a padlock for Mabel's cage, so after my shift I went and got one. I came back and...

"Yes it was on my own time, but sometimes you just have to do what you have to do, Ma, you know that. We'll all sleep better tonight with that padlock on Mabel's cage...

"It'll be hard to go into the yard tomorrow, though, I'll tell you. Kathy said she'd come early so I wouldn't be by myself ... What?

"I know you don't understand why I chose this work, and I know you think I have a problem here, that I'm addicted to children or something ... Aw, Ma, I know it's a worry to you, no retirement benefits and all, but I'll be okay when I reach sixtyfive, honest I will. I'll figure it out. I just love my work—it's that simple. That's worth something, now, isn't it? ...

Ma, you're the best. I always feel better when I talk to
you."

Pasadena Child Development Center
Wednesday, January 13

About 8:30 that evening the laser printer consented to make fifteen copies of the completed board report, and then with a groan its light went out and silence ensued. Hannah's groan echoed the printer's. She crawled behind the machine and disconnected it, to take it once again the next day to the Computer Shack for attention. She wound the cord around it, hoisted it to her right hip, placed the offi ce key between her teeth, slung her purse over her shoulder, took the agendas in her free hand, switched off the lights with her elbow, and closed the office door. She set everything on the fl oor in the hall outside the office, locked the door and put the key safely in her purse. Then she picked up her load, descended the stairs, and placed the broken printer on top of the children's cubbies in the threes room.

I hate closing, she thought. It's really the downside of my work.

She kicked one of the cubbies just hard enough to feel the blow on the top of her foot and felt a little better. Then she tucked the board agendas into Board President Andrew Chin's mailbox, retrieved the printer, went out the back door, locked it, and headed for her car.

It would feel good to get home, she knew. It would be a return to her own personal core, and after this long challenging day, she needed to recharge.

Harare, Zimbabwe
August 1998

Heavy thuds against their locked door splintered the central panel.

Later, Tapiwa couldn't be sure whether Chipo had kicked him in warning before she jumped out of bed or whether the first blow to his body had come from the masked intruders. By the moonlight from the west window, he could see two forms in oversized uniforms, stomping toward him in their knee-high steel-tipped boots.

He was slammed to the floor. He sensed Chipo and Farai cowering beneath the bed out of sight of the intruders. Blows crunched Tapiwa's skull, bashed his groins and the soles of his feet. No one spoke: the only sounds were the thuds of the clubs and, though he tried to keep silent, his own screams and groans. He could smell his fear, and the Chibuku on the breath of his attackers. Shameful wetness trickled between his legs.

If only he could control his moans, they might leave him for dead. His lips clamped shut, Tapiwa summoned all his remaining strength and implored the god of his childhood, in whom he had thought he no longer believed. "Mwari, help me!" He clamped his upper teeth over his lower lip, willing his body to lie stiff and motionless.

Harare International Airport
August 31, 1998

"Cali-for-ni-yah!" "Ca-li-fornya!" "Cal-i-for—" The word was hard for him to pronounce, but Farai worked earnestly at it.

As in a dream, Tapiwa Moyo, awkward in his new Western suit, stood and regarded his family. The four of them—he and Chipo, Farai, and Ruvimbo—were in the South African Airlines waiting room of the Harare International Airport, a building inspired by the Great Zimbabwe ruins.

In an hour he, Chipo, and Farai would fly from here to Johannesburg, then to Dulles Airport in Washington, DC, and on to Los Angeles. After they left Ruvimbo would return to her cottage with her friend Tatenda, who was waiting outside in a taxi.

Tapiwa looked at Ruvimbo. She was rooted to the floor a few feet from her daughter and grandson. She wore a drab long, full skirt with a shawl; the red and yellow scarf tied tightly around her head leaped out as the only bright note. She maintained her calm, responding absently to Farai as he tried to break through the coolness that separated his mother and grandmother.

Friday, January 8

"What on earth made you and Joan plan to have a sheriff come and talk to us, for God's sake?" Tony Gibson groaned as he lounged back in his beanbag chair. The beanbag groaned, too, under his corpulent form. Lead teacher Anne Williams presided, and Hannah lent support as the fours staff gathered for its weekly meeting, a few days before Sheriff Bronson's annual January visit.

Tony had creative ideas for activities with children but could often be unrealistic in implementing them, Hannah knew well. His teammates were frequently frustrated by his edgy, obscure communication style.

I think it's a great idea," said Sandy. "Get 'em used to the idea, early on, that someone's out there they can trust besides their parents, someone they can go to if they're scared or lost."

Sandy was Tony's age, twenty-five, and worked half-time in the afternoons. Hannah saw in her a waif struggling to come to terms with her own difficult childhood, to appear mature and streetwise.

Thursday, January 21

Gina must have stepped out on an errand, and after half an hour or so, Hannah settled the questions and concerns of those who'd waited in the offi ce, now blessedly empty. Hannah's mind hummed. She had a sudden realization that she and Sims had never even discussed Tapiwa's death, whether accidental or otherwise. They'd stayed entirely with possibilities about the whereabouts of Farai, probing into who might have snatched the boy the night before.

Well, she, too, would try to focus her thoughts; she would mourn Tapiwa later. Maybe they could still save the boy. An image of Farai fl ashed across her mind, a rag stuffed in his mouth, his hands and feet tied, curled up in the trunk of a car, terrified. She forced it away. Such thoughts only clouded her brain, and she desperately needed whatever brain she had available to her.

Of the possibilities she'd mentioned to Sims—Elaine, Joan, Sue, the three African men—who did she think the most likely? Though she didn't know Elaine, she nevertheless considered her a possible source of information. Since state law required that child care centers have on fi le a way to reach both parents of each child, she had Elaine's phone number. Of late Tapiwa had been reachable only at Elaine's.