The Man with the Red Bag by Eve Bunting Page B

guy—,” I began.
    â€œLike you would know,” Geneva said. “He left my mom and me to go tend to all those, quote, distressed people in Africa. He didn’t care at all about us. My mom asked him to come home but he said he’d made a commitment. He was needed. These were human beings. They had to have water if they were to grow their crops. He was bettering their lives. So arrogant!”
    â€œIs that what your mom said? That he was arrogant?”
    â€œThat’s what she said. And it’s true.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Well—”
    â€œNow he wants to, quote, be a part of my life. The dam he helped build is supplying water to the towns and villages. There are other engineers there now. He wants me to spend Christmas vacation with him, and summer vacations, part of them, and some weekends.”
    â€œWell, he is your father. And how do you know he didn’t care at all about you?”
    â€œMy mom told me.”
    I thought about that. “Does your mom like him?”
    â€œNo way.” Geneva spoke quickly. “Not anymore. And now she has Eli and they…” She stopped.
    â€œMaybe you and your mom could have gone to visit your dad,” I suggested. “In Africa. Didn’t he ever come home to visit you?”
    â€œSure. Big deal. Two weeks.” She was staring out of the window, her shoulders hunched. “I never knew him, hardly.”
    â€œYou could get to know him now…a bit. Maybe that’s what the judge thought. You’re being so not reasonable.”
    â€œJust quit it, okay? Mind your own business.”
    That was what Charles Stavros had told me. More or less.
    Scotty had stopped the bus and we were disembarking to see the mud pots. We walked on a path between the gurgles and plops of the bubbling mud.
    â€œDon’t go near the edges,” Declan warned. “We haven’t lost a tour member yet.”
    â€œThere’s always the first time,” Buffo cracked. He pretended to step into one of the small, steaming craters.
    â€œThis place stinks,” Millie said. “If you ask me, it’s like hell.”
    â€œThe smell is sulfur in the form of hydrogen sulphate gas,” Declan told us. “The temperature inside one is around one hundred eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The big one over there is called the Dragon’s Throat. You can see why.” Steam and stench hissed out like rotting beast-breath.
    I walked behind Grandma. Not that I thought she’d fall in or anything. We kid around that she looks out for me and I look out for her.
    I loved the mud pots. I’d never seen anything like them. But they were scary, too. Witches’ cauldrons.
    The high school kids had put on the play Macbeth last year. “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” the first witch had chanted. It wasn’t hard to imagine the three witches stooped over these cauldrons in the dark of some wild night. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair.” I shivered and stuffed my hands deep in my pockets. Too real!
    â€œDo you think it looks like this on the moon?” Grandma asked, stopping for a second to stare across the bubbling landscape.
    â€œMars, more likely,” Mr. Dove said from somewhere in front.
    I kept my eyes on Stavros.
    He walked along the circle of the path making no attempt to do anything sinister with the red bag that he held so securely. His private, precious bag.
    I had this hollow feeling in my stomach as I looked at him. Maybe he wasn’t a terrorist. I had wanted him to be, because of the way he looked and because of my book. But maybe, like Geneva had said, I wanted the glory. I should just wait till I saw Millie’s pictures. And till I got a good look at that black, shiny thing and made sure it wasn’t a bomb.
    I should just wait. But more than anything, I hated waiting.

CHAPTER 11
    W e would be staying at the Old Faithful Inn in