“Moon,” said Seshat, “what?”
Araweelo nodded them over. Onscreen, the blog of a Toronto right-wing wolverine columnist.
Bottom line: after the national interview with Moon, the columnist’d gotten emails from “unnamed sources” in E-Town and in Minneapolis that’d “filled him in” on Moon’s “history of trouble making,” including taking part in dozens of “violent protests” like the one in Edmonton that week, of “suspicious activity with minors” and preaching “black liberation theology” and “black supremacy.”
But the best was saved for last.
More unnamed sources said that when Moon lived in Minneapolis, the “unstable extremist” had been locked up in a mental hospital and forced to receive electro-shock therapy.
What the fuck?
9.
Seshat croaked out, “Who’re these ‘unnamed sources?’ Who would’ve done this?
Maã asked, “Katrina?”
“You both knew her,” said Moon from the window, into the silence. “My ex is a crazy, vindictive piece of work, but . . . even her, naw. Naw. I don’t think she even knew. Too wrapped up in her new man.”
Seshat: “Then who?”
“Who knows? Cops?”
Maã: “Yes, but medical records—”
“I don’know!” He turned at them. “What’re you implying?”
“Moon—”
“We’re in the Savage Lands, and Destroyers are everywhere! That’s our life! That’s our fate!”
“Moon, all I meant was—”
“And we can’t even slip up once. Not once!” Eyes wild. “Cuz even if some’re sleeping, the rest aren’t. ‘Murderous knives and fingers cruel.’”
Turned back to the window. Raptor, still as stone. Araweelo, wiping mascara from her cheeks.
Is it true? thought Raptor. And if it isn’t, then why isn’t he saying anything?
“Well,” said Moon, as if he’d been mind-reading, “obviously you wanna know, ’Weelo, Rap. This bullshit about being locked up in a mental hospital is complete lies.”
“That,” said Maã, “we will sue for.”
Raptor breathed out for the first time since finishing the article.
“But yeah,” said Moon, “I got electro-convulsive therapy.”
Raptor gasped.
It was small, and he caught himself, but it was out and he knew Moon’d heard him. All he could say was, “Why?”
“I told you about how, how . . . how when my wife left, I was basically destroyed. Fell into a huge depression. She wouldn’t let me see our kids . . . threatened to lie to the judge and tell her I’d—”
He cleared his throat.
“And her new man, he was a lawyer, so . . . .
“I couldn’t work. Lost my job. Basically rotting in the apartment I rented after she forced me out. Was just about to get evicted. Anti-depressants seriously messed me up. The juice was the only thing that saved me.”
Chuckled, coldly. “Well, that and Brother Maã. He flew down, helped me get it together.”
Raptor looked to Sbai Seshat. She must’ve read You knew? in his eyes because all she did was nod.
“So. Now you know,” said Moon. Slouching. “Guess . . . guess you’ll need some time to think about this, huh?”
Araweelo rushed forward but stopped when she saw him stiffen.
“No, Moon, of course nott! I know your mindt . . . and your heart!” It came out of chorus and your harrit, but everyone knew what she meant.
“Naw, ’Weelo,” rasped Moon. “You need to take your time. You have the right.” He chinned towards Raptor. “You too, young brother.”
Raptor, straightening up. “I’ve already had more than a year, Brother Moon. I know who you are.”
Moon smiled sadly, nodded without agreeing.
But the truth was, Raptor was afraid of him now.
10.
“Man, what is up with you and ’Noot?”
Two hours later in the Hyper-Market, Sister Sentwaset working evening shift, and Jackal was sitting at the computer carrel next to Raptor’s. Both were rocking the online Vengeance of Serious Sam MMO.
“What?” grumbled Raptor.
He was trying to machine gun phalanxes of evil mummies and take down two fire-breathing sphinxes without getting his own ass blown off. Trying to replace-elevate his mind outta the swamps he’d been sinking into for days. Now Jackal wanted to drag him down again?
“Seriously, dude,” went Jackal on again, “what is your problem? What’s a girl gotta do? She planted one right on you—”
“Jeez, quiet, all right?”
“Why’re you avoiding her? She’s not a library book you can just check out and check back in and get back anytime you want. She’s more like, like, like a matchbook, y’know . . . you like rip off one match, get a coupla sparks, but if you gotta rub it more than once—”
“Please, no more similes—I can’t take it.”
“Man, you can dodge, but you can’t duck.”
“Seriously,” said Raptor. He shot his last rocket-propelled grenade into the man-lion’s mouth, which exploded. The Sphinx became a giant, flaming skull and ribcage, crashing to the sand. “Anyway, listen . . . what do you think about Moon’s . . . y’know—”
Jackal didn’t stop joysticking. Just corner-glanced Raptor long enough to shoot a cut-the-shit.
“If you’re asking,” said Jackal, “it’s cuz you already know what you think, and you’re hoping I agree. And quit changing the subject—”
“Naw, naw, maybe I’m hoping you can convince me otherwise. Persuade me.”
“You? The mighty Rap-Tor? Since when do you listen to anybody?”
“Damn, Jackal, this’s hard enough—”
“Okay, okay. What’s got you?”
Raptor explained his reaction to the blog, which’d been linked to from all over the internet. On the Falcons blog, everyone formed a defensive shenu around the teacher, but email traffic, he knew, was more varied. Far less sure. Some of it . . . .
He told Jackal the truth: all his years running from one refugee camp to the next, then fleeing to E-Town, and finding men like his Somali neighbour Wiil Waal and Doctor Liberia, from one end of the planet to the next: adults either destroying themselves or destroying everyone around them.
Was it really so impossible that Moon was . . . well . . . .
“Dude,” said Jackal, shredding a scimitar-wielding Hyksos cavalry charge with hyper-boomerangs, “if Brother Moon’s crazy, then I gotta level up some crazy, transform? So, what, you’re afraid of him, now?”
“No,” he whispered. “I mean, I thought I was. But maybe, maybe it’s worse.”
Jackal actually put his controller down, swiveled to face Raptor. “What?”
“I don’know.”
“What? You’re, you’re disgusted? You look down on him? You’re ashamed of him?”
Raptor: feeling his eyes flaring under the X-rays.
Jackal, leaning forward. Quietly: “What if he was getting, like, chemo? Or a heart transplant?”
That threw him. He shook his head.
“So what if dude got depressed? Who wouldn’t be? Shit, Moon doesn’t even touch drugs, booze, doesn’t mess around . . . how many people you know like that?
“Out there you got rich Leadites drinking thousand-dollar bottles of Cristal, politicians snorting coke, all of em boning hoes like hoes’re being phased out—and all Brother Moon needed was some electrons to get by? And that’s sposta be bad or suh’m?”
Jackal leaned back. “Shit, sign me up! My wife leaves me and accuses me of being a pedophile, just so she can take my kids away? I’ll be wetting my own damn finger and sticking it in a socket tomorrow!”
Raptor laughed. They both did. And then Constable Babyface walked in.
“—Mr. Black Panther, not so big now, are ya? Now’t yer liberal fuckin friends’ve dropped ya like a steamin pile a shit?”
Coors-bent as a muhfucka, wagging his sneer right at Moon. Alr
eady’d driven the dozen customers outta the Hyper-Market by the time Raptor’d gotten the boss from upstairs. Just the sight of the man stabbed Raptor with the recollection of electrical torture.
“Don’t think for a minute,” said Moon, “this bullshit isn’t gonna be part of suing your ass into the poorhouse!”
Raptor and Jackal, backs against the wall, Sister Sentwaset behind the cash register. Eye-mailing back-and-forth among them: fear.
Just like the night that Jackal and Raptor met Moon. Same block, different fumes, same rage, different cop.
And what could they do? Babyface was one word away from violence. He was a cop, a Destroyer with a pyrite badge. He could kill them all legally and mount their heads on the cop shop wall . . . .
Fuck it.
Even if Raptor’s heart was rupturing towards explosion. This was no time warp. This wasn’t a year ago.
Cuz this time, Raptor and Jackal had the back of their Master.
“You’re a real smart smart-alec, aintcha?” The thick-necked cop staggered one step to his right. “Thinkya know everything? Pal, you got no idea whatcher up against! Yer, yer, yer goin down!”
Moon: “Babyface, anybody going down, it’s you. Last thing I do, Destroyer, I’ma get you, hear me?”
“Blah, blah, BLA-A-AH!”
Barking breath so fume-foul Raptor had to wince.
“I already know,” said Moon, “you’re getting charged with insubordination for Tasering my son and then failing to get medical attention and not properly documenting—”
“FUCK your documenting!”
Babyface jabbed a finger close enough to stab Moon in the eye.
Moon didn’t budge.
Raptor knew: even with just that one finger Moon coulda jiu jitsued the big man through the floor tiles into screaming tears. As if Moon’s hands were Tasers.
“Better get outta here,” said Moon. So frostily, the air coulda fogged white. Thumbed up towards his security camera. “Before I hafta YouTube me breaking your ass off in two for the whole world to see.”
Babyface’s eyes drained, like he’d just seen his chief and his chief’s chief heading straight at him. Practically ran out, his stagger losing half its drunk.
Moo, at the door, yelling down the street: “YO, DESTROYER! Stay the FUCK AWAY FROM MY KIDS!”
Through the window, two pedestrians, maybe would’ve-been customers. Recoiling from Moon back into the night.
Moon. Mortified. Furious. Turned back into the Hyper-Market. Tromped to the rear. Told Sentwaset to close up, that he’d give her a ride home if she needed it.
The two boys looked at each other. Raptor saw a stain in Jackal’s eyes. Fear. And maybe shame.
When Raptor stopped shaking and went upstairs, he overheard Moon talking on the phone to Maãhotep.
“It’s time . . . . I mean, if they’re taking it all away anyway . . . yeah, that’s right . . . . Year ago they Tasered me and beat me, and now I’m dealing with this shit? Yeah . . . .
“Yeah, ten million. I like the sound of that.”
Raptor: wanting to go to bed, wanting to sleep, wanting to shut it all out when it seemed like everything was roaring into cinders.
Instead he boiled water for tea and put on a Boondocks DVD. Clicked the one that’d made Moon laugh so hard he’d coughed his tea all over himself and Raptor’d had to run get him a towel.
The one where the world’s greatest sell-out, Uncle Ruckus, facing a terminal prognosis, received Ronald Reagan in a vision. Reagan revealed to him the only way he’d get into “White Heaven” to meet “White Jesus”: God loves the White man, and if you teach everyone on earth to love White people, you, too, can join us in Heaven.
They sat drinking tea. Watching the show in laughless silence.
Moon. Slouching. An agèd king, watching war burn through the final planks of his kingdom.
11.
Al Hambra apartment. Evening.
Sitting on the couch, his mum wide-eyed him. Drily: “This is a firstt.” It sounded like furrestt.
Night off from the Hyper-Market, his homework done, Raptor’d phoned his mother. Asked if he could eat supper at her place. Shocked silence.
Then she offered to cook something up and asked him to hurry over.
Raptor, standing, opening his hands. “Well, I’m just curious.”
“In the five years I wass with Jacob, you never once askud me about my ‘relationship’ with him.”
“Well,” he said, pacing in front of her, “I’m older now. And I just don’really know what’s going on between you two.”
“So . . . Moon doesn’t . . . ?”
“I think he’s trying to balance your privacy, my privacy and his privacy. So he doesn’t say much, no.”
She licked her lips. Looked at a worn patch on the rug.
“Well . . . we love each other.”
Raptor nodded.
“Beyond that, we’re . . . taking it slowly. He was hurrett badly, and so was I.”
“I know what you said to him, about knowing his mind and heart and all, but—.” Raptor’s eyes dissected the room for clues on how to proceed. Only found empty food trays from their President’s Choice frozen dinners.
“How do you really feel about Brother Moon’s . . . mental health? And shock treatment?”
“Itt’s calledt ECT,” she said softly. She’d worked a year on contract with the inner-city Multicultural Health Brokers Co-op. She had a lock on all the lingo.
“By North American standardts,” she said, “your own father would’ve been consideredt bipolar.”
Stopped pacing.
“He’dt work like a sandstorm for two weeks, then drop.” She stifled a yawn, like she could feel her dead husband’s exhaustion herself. “Sometimes a day, sometimes two weeks. I coveredt for him as much as I couldt.”
Didn’t bother to say, I had no idea. That territory between them was still land-mined. Shouldn’t’ve surprised him, really. She always was drawn to men combusting with drama.
“He wass an excellentt man, your father,” she said. “Three thingks you should never allow: adultery, addiction, and abuse.” He let her list go, then wondered if maybe it wasn’t a blind platitude, but a confession. “But affliction? Love . . . calls us to a higher duty.”
He mumbled something.
“What’s that?”
“I said, ‘A righteous labour.’ It’s from the eighth pledge of the Nub-Wmet-Ãnkh. Does Brother Moon ever tell you about our teachings ?”
“No, no. Tell me.”
“‘By the sunrise, I set my thoughts and words and hands in righteous labour to drain the Swamps of Death and master the elevated lands. I lift my hammer towards the raiders, but I will never harm the Wanderers, and I will raise a Golden Fortress for the orphans of the Savage Lands.’”
She nodded. “Thoughtts and wordts and handts. And heartt.” Harrit. “And what about you and this singing girl?”
“What? I don’t—”
“A woman can figure out plentty on her own. Almeera, right? Her ‘golden name’ is Yibemnoott?”
He sniffed appreciatively. “Right. But . . . well, she’s Somali—”
“So you think I won’t like her.”
“No. Well, yeah, but I mean, that’s not why I’m . . . .”
He sat down on the couch. Next to her.
“Dating’s tough,” she said.
Dating advice from his mum? Like watching TV with her when an ad for feminine napkins or condoms came on, and he knew she was probing his face for reactions.
“Even though she’s a muhajabah,” she said, “that doesn’t mean she’s naïve. Plenty of those girls have hadt boyfriendts.”
“Mum, ’Noot’s not some kinda—”
“No, no, you’re taking me wrong. I just mean . . . you don’t have to feel like you’re corraaptingk her or something—”
“Because she’s already corrupt?”
“No, because she’s probably gott enough strength—” (“sta-reng-gu
th”) “—to make her own decisions.”
Turned his knees towards hers.
“Her singingk at the Kush Party,” she said, “wass beautiful. I wish I couldt do that! Great voice. Great spiritt. You two were greatt up there together!”
He blinked up at her. Couldn’t help but smile.
“She’s smartt and nice and talentedt. If she treatts you well, thatt’s a blessing.” She wove her fingers together, rested them in her lap. “But carryingk on a, a forbidden romance . . . ah! There it is in your eyes. Thatt’s why all this nervousness.
“I won’t lie to you,” she said. Put a hand on his knee. He let is stay there. “It’s very difficultt. Somali father, uncles, brothers . . . hidingk is no fun.
“And lyingk all the time, it’s poison. In a Hindi movie, of course, it’s very romantic and dramatic, but—what? Why are you smiling?
“She loves Hindi movies, too.”
“So—she and I have something else in common. Somali girls who fall for smart, handsome Garang boys.”
Looked down, up, down, smiled till he felt it twanging his cheeks. She touched his face softly. Her eyelids: fluttering like butterfly wings.
When he hugged her, she smelled like flowers and oranges.
Phone rang its apartment-buzzer ring. Araweelo picked it up. Raptor heard the tiny voice: “Flower delivery for a Ms., uh, A-ra-weelo . . . Kaultom . . . Farah?”
Buzzed the guy in. Stood, eyes glinting. Nearly giggled. “He’s a truly romanatic man!”
At the door, the man repeated her name. She nodded. He reached behind the bouquet and tapped her outstretched hands with an envelope.
“You’ve been served,” he said and scrambled away.
Raptor pounced over to her. Flowerless, she opened the envelope, read her news.
“Mum, what?”
“Doctor Liberia!” She’d never called him that, ever. “He’s suing me!”
Two hours later. Maãhotep, sitting on a fold-out chair, legs crossed at the ankles, expensive socks toeing the worn floor.
“Well,” he said, “all the money he lent you over the years, he kept records. Cancelled cheques . . . and a ledger. He wants it all back, with interest.”
The Alchemists of Kush Page 37