Free Sudan: A Novel by Ninie Hammon Page A

stress in his face. That frown crease between his eyebrows, it’s so deep right now you could grow ivy in it.”
    “Don’t tell me my big brother is worried he won’t get reelected! I figured all our Hoosier homies made him representative-for-life after last year’s landslide.”
    “Well, it’s a different world out there now than it was a year ago. Lots of things have changed. He faces a hunker-down, put-on-your-flak-jackets battle this term. But that’s not it. That’s not what’s eating at him.”
    “Problems on the Appropriations Committee?”
    “No, that takes a lot of his time but...”
    “It’s the Freedom from Religious Persecution Bill, isn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question. And in this hotel lobby in Khartoum, Ron said it quietly.
    “Ron, that’s all he thinks about.” There was a mixture of irritation, confusion and concern in her voice. “I’ve never seen him with this kind of--”
    “Fire in his belly?”
    “Yes, fire in his belly!”
    Ron knew exactly what Dan felt. He felt the same kind of burning urgency to make the world understand what was happening in Sudan. But even if he hadn’t, there was a clear picture in his head of that kind of passion.
    “It’s a shame you didn’t get a chance to know Dad very well, Sherry.”
    “You felt like you knew him, though. Everybody in southern Indiana did. We saw that face on television—the Reverend Paul Wolfson—in a crusade against drunk driving or child abuse or pornography or...”
    “Riverboat gambling or toxic waste or...”
    “You know, I never told Dan this, but the first time he asked me for a date—to the Valentine’s Day dance when we were freshmen—I almost said no because I was so intimidated that his father was famous. I wish now I could have spent time with your father, but he was never around.”
    You got that right, Ron thought; he was never around. “If you’d spent more than five minutes in his presence you’d have seen the fire-in-the-belly syndrome coming a long way out, Sherry. Dan’s so much like Dad it’s spooky.”
    “Funny you should say that because he always says the same thing about you.”
    “Does he really?” That genuinely surprised Ron. Dan was the one who looked most like their father—tall, broad shoulders, dark hair and eyes. Dan was the one who stepped into their father’s shoes as the crusading social reformer. Dan was the gifted speaker, the charismatic leader. Ron was, well, none of the above. OK, maybe the social reformer part.
    “You know, I think deep down in his heart, Dan wants to be you when he grows up.” Then she shifted gears. “Look, this call’s expensive, and you want to talk to Dan. He’s downstairs doing research on a bill, guess which one, and you’ve given me a dandy excuse to disturb him.”
    “Tell the kids I miss them!”
    “I will. Jonathan never shuts up about you. He thinks you’re braver than Indiana Jones.”
    “Tell him I’m better looking, too,” Ron said, but Sherry had already put the receiver down on the table beside the sugar-cube Alamo.
    Sherry was wrong. Dan wasn’t working on the Freedom from Religious Persecution Bill. He had taken a break to recharge his batteries. He sat on the couch in his basement study, his head thrown back, his brown eyes focused on nothing, tenderly cradling his Martin D28 guitar as he finger-picked and sung along. While his deep, booming bass was only a little better than average, his skill on the guitar was nothing short of astonishing. A man with hands as large as his should barely have been able to play at all, but Dan with a guitar was like Ron with a camera—a magician. The big man’s musical wizardry had only one limitation...
    I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher .
    ...his musical taste. Dan Wolfson loved country music. Johnny Cash. The Charlie Daniels Band. Allison Krauss. Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. And though he had suffered the raging ridicule of