Beneath the Same Heaven

by Anne Marie Ruff

  Michael looks up at me, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Is he all right? When will I see him?”

  I shut my eyes tight, seeing Rashid in my mind’s eye as I last saw him, the night before he left on the job. I open my eyes and look at my son, this beautiful creature who carries Rashid’s DNA. And I tell him the truth. “Michael, your father has been killed.” His eyebrows rise even higher. “I’m so sorry my child.” Yet more pressure, tears behind my eyes. “We will not see him again.”

  “You mean he’s gone forever? Like Babu?”

  He has no idea just how the two events are linked, only that the outcome is the same. A man we loved will never appear before us again in the flesh. “Oh Michael,” I hold him against me, reach for the baby from my mother, “I’m afraid he is gone. Gone like Babu.”

  His tears come at first as little sniffles, then open up into giant gaping sobs. Andrew wakes, disturbed, and adds his own cries. I question my mother with my eyes. Have I done the right thing? Have I lied in a way that will protect my son? She nods at me, gently reaches out to hold Michael. I loosen my embrace and he lurches into his grandmother’s arms. “I want my Daddy, I want my Daddy,” he repeats over and over as she strokes his hair.

  Andrew flails his arms back and forth as if he is beating me. I lift my shirt. He angrily latches on my breast and soon quiets. I lean back and feel the pressure easing. The words have been said, the milk is flowing, the tears are running down my cheeks.

  The next few days pass in a blur. Ted returns to San Diego and tells his wife, Janet, we will be moving in with them. My father takes charge of reviewing all of our documents, talking to the bank, the landlord, the insurance companies. My mother takes charge of the children, who do not return to school and daycare. She takes them out to the park, the library, the ice cream store when the FBI officials come to the house every day. They ask again and again the same questions: who did Rashid associate with, where did he go, who called him? My father guards the door, my mother guards the telephone. At the center of this flurry of activity, I participate only as a source of information, intelligence, milk. I want to stop something, to exert some influence that will reverse these events, return me to my previous life. But I am mute, as in a dream when you are threatened or attacked, but incapable of letting out a scream that might save you.

  The people around me reveal surprising facts in this process. My father finds Rashid had purchased an expensive life insurance policy, just after he returned from Pakistan, that covered almost every conceivable event. The FBI shows me phone records displaying calls Rashid had made and received with a young Palestinian man who had begun frequenting the mosque in Artesia—the man who was also in the truck when it blew up. Rashid’s company sends letters detailing a series of small discrepancies in the inventories of their tools; electrical connections, small quantities of explosives, even a radioactive source that had gone missing for a couple of days and then mysteriously reappeared.

  Every night after the children sleep, my parents sit with me. They attempt to construct a story, a new iteration each day as we learn more.

  I feel as if I am developing a relationship with a different man, a man who only speaks to me from the past and through others. I want to hate him. But I see in every bit of information a meticulous devotion to his family, both his Pakistani family and us. Every time he spoke with the Palestinian, he then texted me asking about us, or the children, expressing his love, asking me if he could pick up something I needed on his way home.

  Tonight my father seizes on this point, speculating. “The Palestinian,” my father says, as he might have chosen the butler from a cast of characters in the murder detective board game we played when I was a child, “he no doubt felt some sympathy with Rashid. Both their fathers had been killed by powerful militaries. The Homeland Security analysts couch this as a political action, inspired by a fanatical Islam. But Rashid reached out to his family after each call…this was much more personal.”

  I think about their fathers, Rashid’s I knew, Ali’s I imagine. I watch my own father, here on my couch, loving me.

  “We should ask about the Palestinian’s phone records,” my mother says, “see if he also texted his family after their conversations.” She writes this down on the everpresent yellow legal pad that records our evolving to do list: provide a death certificate for the insurance company, provide the FBI hair samples from the boys to confirm Rashid’s DNA in the wreckage so I can receive a death certificate, take new passport photos of the boys so I can request a legal name change, revise my resume to eliminate any international work. The list grows more complex than I can comprehend.

  Nowhere on the list, however, is any funeral. Without a body, of course, there is no need to call a mortician, decide on cremation or burial, choose a casket or call about plots. Muslims would have made sure to bury the body in a simple wooden box and say the ritual prayers as soon as possible after his death. But we are not Muslims, my parents are not equipped to orchestrate such a ceremony—I tell myself—we have very practical reasons preventing us from observing the usual death rituals.

  But there is not even any mention of a memorial. The writing on the pad shows my parents straining to be helpful, even-handed. In my father’s hurried, almost self-important block letters, I see a proud man, careful about his actions. In my mother’s classic flowing cursive, I see a desire to return to a pleasant order. But I know between those lines, they are so deeply disappointed in Rashid, and perhaps even in me for my choices, that I cannot possibly ask them to produce or cooperate with some ceremony that would eulogize the man I loved.

  So I am left; a sentence without a period, an envelope with an open flap, a door swinging without a latch, a departure without a goodbye.

  “Kathryn,” my father says, “I think we’ve done about all we can from here. We also have to get back to our own lives, check our mail, the house, the garden.”

  I pull in my lower lip, bite hard.

  He reaches out for my hand. “Everything is in motion with the insurance, with your move. Ted and Janet will be here next week to help you bring the children down. The movers are scheduled to come the same day. Janet has enrolled Michael in the same school as his cousins and arranged a spot for Andrew in a very good day care.”

  “We know it won’t be easy for you, Kathy.” My mother sets her hands on her knees, very properly. “You’re a strong woman, you’ve shown that you can handle anything, anyone. This will be no different, but you’ll have to grieve, there’s no shortcut, and that’s not something we can do for you.”

  I have a moment to make it different, ask them to help me say goodbye with some ritual. I look into my lap. “Do you think… could you maybe…?”

  My mother rushes into my pause. “We can come back down as soon as you need us. And we will call you as soon as we land, and as often as you need. We will always be here for you.” I can see her saying all the right things. “We just need to check back in on our responsibilities at home, it’s been three weeks.”

  I understand. This is a nightmare for them too, and they need to escape. My mother glances at my father. He tilts his head ever so slightly in approval. Age has eroded the firm line of his jaw, a few whiskers remain just below his lip, eluding the razor in his now less-steady hand.

  “We’re planning to leave the day after tomorrow.” A reediness creeps into my father’s voice. “Will that be all right for you?”

  I will have failed my parents, denied them the ease they deserve at this point in their lives, I will have failed to honor my husband in his death with a memorial service, and I will have failed to provide for my sons the one man they will need most in their lives. A trilogy of little tragedies, one for each generation I touch, tattooed across my heart.

  “Of course.” I sigh. “Of course.”

  In the morning, I take charge. I prepare the coffee. I set the yellow legal pad at my place on the table. I make a round through the rooms, gathering up the things they have forgotten to pack. My par
ents seem relieved, my mother hugs me and praises my new persona as if it were the prodigal son. I can see the tension ebbing from their faces, I see my father focus intently on Michael, alternately pulling and tickling his ears. Michael laughs with delight. My mother holds Andrew on her lap, his little feet kneading her middle as she traces the features of his face with her fingers.

  The window has closed, I can ask them for no more. They have given me all they are capable of. I maintain my charade for a full day, occasionally believing my own performance, before shepherding everyone into the car. And before I can stop them, I am waving them off at the airport.

  On the way home I make a point of seeking out an unfamiliar grocery store. I don’t want to be recognized as I purchase eggs and milk and apple juice. Michael chatters up and down the aisles, asking me when Grandma and Grandpa will be back, how far is San Diego, what will his new teacher’s name be. I don’t take off my sunglasses, he can’t see as I squeeze my eyes shut, suppressing both tears and uncertainty.

  We pull into the parking garage, I ignore the reporter who tries to flag me down, and take the elevator up. As I slide the key into the lock, I notice a triangle of white paper sticking out from under the door. I usher children and groceries inside before I pick up the paper—an envelope that has been slid under the door.

  In a simple, almost childish script, six words written on the envelope cause my heart to skip a beat. To the family of Rashid Siddique. I turn the envelope over repeatedly, seeking out some additional information, some evidence of the sender. Nothing. I sit at the table and take a deep breath before slowly tearing open one corner. I slide my finger in and tear the crease along the short side of the envelope. I feel several sheets of paper, softened, worn. I tip the envelope. A sheaf of hundred dollar bills spills out into my hand.

  I peer inside the envelope looking for a note, an explanation. Nothing but emptiness remains inside the paper. I carefully set the envelope on the table, thinking I shouldn’t alter it, shouldn’t contaminate it with too many of my own fingerprints—a trick I must believe from some long ago observed crime show. I count out the bills, stare at them. A mistake? The envelope so clearly states that the money is intended for me and the boys, although neglecting to mention us by name. A bribe? Nothing indicates the sender wants anything in return. A debt returned? Rashid often lent his countrymen money when they were returning to Pakistan for a wedding and would need extra cash. A payment? For a martyr’s wife.

  I push my chair back, take a step away from the bills, repulsed.

  “Mommy! You promised me juice when we got back. Can I have some apple juice?”

  When Michael notices the bills on the table, he reaches out for them. Instinctively, I slap his hand. “No!” I command. “Don’t touch that.”

  Until now, I have made a point of never hitting my child, prided myself on my even-tempered parenting. His tears come reflexively. I have hurt him, crossed some seemingly inviolable line. I collapse to kneel next to him, immediately gather him in my arms. “Oh beta, oh Michael,” I correct myself, “I’m so sorry. I just don’t want you to touch that money. It isn’t ours. Someone made a mistake leaving it here.”

  “Really?” he whimpers. “So much money? When did they leave it?”

  I wipe his tears away with my thumb. He tries to pull away from me, but I hold tightly, will not let him slip away from me. “I don’t know. But we have to make sure we don’t touch the money, so we can return it just as we found it.”

  “But you already touched it.”

  He’s right. I find a paper towel, gingerly use it to pick up the bills as if they are a wild animal that might bite. With my other hand I hold the envelope open again—this I have already touched when turning it over and over—and slide the money, this filthy blood money back from where it came.

  Michael watches.

  “Let me get you some apple juice. Do you want a snack as well?”

  Still sullen, Michael nods.

  “Yogurt? Crackers? Dried fruit?”

  “Crackers.”

  I retrieve cups and bowls, juice and crackers. I open the wrong cupboards, accidentally pour the juice in the bowl before Michael giggles and I pour it into the cup. As I put everything on the table, I realize I have prepared two sets of snacks. I shrug and sit next to Michael wishing my own mother were still here to make me a cup of coffee.

  My parents. Should I tell them about the money? I glance at the clock in the kitchen, they might still be on the plane. And what could they do? I have no other information, they would just worry. Who else might I tell? Ted? Homeland Security? A friend? Each time I think about explaining this money, I imagine my interlocutor’s reaction, a mix of pity and accusation. An assumption that I am somehow complicit, have withheld some piece of intelligence, one more twist in the story.

  I will tell no one.

  The crackers are gone, a few crumbs are scattered around Michael’s bowl. He looks at me expectantly. “Now what?”

  There is no job, no school, no planned interview, no immediate deadline, only the looming to do list, the yellow legal pad outlining the assignment to reinvent my life, our lives.

  “Can we watch a video?” He waits, expecting my standard disapproval. “Sesame Street? Just a short one?”

  “Yes. Yes. Let’s watch Sesame Street.”

  “Yes, let’s!” Michael leaps out of his chair and chooses an episode from the bookcase. I gather Andrew who fusses on his blanket. I load the shiny silver disc into the player.

  We all sit on the couch together, two boys and their mother, our whole family. A hole in our family. And the television rewards us with cheerful singing, animals and humans, grouches and big birds. I listen, desperately, to a song I know by heart. “Sunny day, everything’s A-OK…”

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  I see the envelope in Rashid’s hand. He holds it out, baiting me as an owner would tempt a dog with a bone. Rashid in his coveralls seems to have just come off a job. Why does he smile like that, looking from the words on the envelope to me and back again? “The family of Rashid Siddique. That’s you Kathryn. This is for you,” he seems to speak directly into my mind, without moving his lips.

  I look again at Rashid, but his face transforms, framed with a white turban and long beard, the very image of a terrorist, seething with the hatred of radical Islamists determined to destroy our way of life—as the politicians tell us. I step back, looking past the man who holds the envelope, this stranger who was once Rashid. I hear an explosion and the air fills with shards of bright red cloth embroidered with gold thread that falls to the ground, dissolving into puddles of blood. Three men run past me to tackle the man who offers me the money. I can see their black jackets bearing the homeland security department insignia. I am shoved to the ground, kicked in my back, someone is wrenching my hands behind me, shouting at me, slamming metal cuffs around my wrists.

  I jerk away, force my eyes open. There are no men, no cuffs, no man with an envelope. But my heart races. I leave the bed, go to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, hoping to wash away the nightmare. I open the refrigerator and nearly jump with fear. The envelope confronts me from the top shelf. I must have set it there in my haste the day before. I will have to find a place for it, a hiding place. I crave something, but cannot determine what. I open cupboards and drawers, rummage through the refrigerator. Finally I settle on a bottle. The stopper squeaks as I uncork it. I pour a small quantity of Scotch into a glass, taking my time to replace the stopper, to put away the bottle before sitting at the table to drink. It looks like liquid gold, but sears my throat. I close my eyes, inhale the peaty smell. I drink all of it, feel a pleasant disembodiment. I drift back to the counter, wash the glass, dry it, and put it away so I will not be reminded in the morning.

  My keys rattle in my purse as I open the glass and chrome door to the bank. I shepherd Michael through and then Andrew in the stroller. I am glad to be standing after the long drive to San Diego. I rationalized that
a bank in our new city makes more sense than our local bank in Los Angeles. I have tried to obscure my identity with my hair tucked away under a baseball cap. Andrew smiles at a slowly spinning sign, an advertisement, enticing working class people to dream of new homes and businesses, a reality but for the miracle of a bank loan. Michael pulls on my hand, “Does this bank give lollipops like our old bank?”

  I approach the teller window. The envelope in my purse feels like a lead weight.

  “Welcome,” the teller says with practiced cheerfulness, “how can I help you today?”

  “I’d like to add a safety deposit box to my account, my son’s account actually.”

  “Certainly. I’ll call a banker to assist you.”

  A young Latino man, in suit and tie, walks me through the contract, the sizes (I will only be needing the smallest size), the access hours (I nod impatiently, I don’t plan to visit this money again) and the price (an automatic deduction from my son’s modest savings account will be fine).

  He points to a small notice posted to the cubicle wall behind him. “I have to confirm you have read this.” He recites the warning. “In cooperation with the Department of Homeland Security, and in an effort to reduce terrorism, we report all transactions larger than $10,000.”

  I let out a disgusted snort. As if such flimsy precautions could have prevented what happened.

  “Of course it’s not meant for people like you,” he says apologetically.

  I laugh, darkly. He smiles, uncertain. On any other day I would notice he is handsome, but today I see him as some kind of clown.

  He pinches the baby’s cheek, offers Michael a lollipop, and escorts us all past a reinforced steel door into the bank’s vault. His spiel about the safety and privacy of the service blurs in my head as I grow increasingly anxious to rid myself of this money. The man can see I am not paying attention. He finally opens a door into a small room with one seat and a small built-in countertop. He retrieves a steel box from a wall of similar boxes, reminiscent of a columbarium to hold the ashes of the dead. With the box on the counter and the keys in my hand, I watch the man deferentially excuse himself. I send Michael in, try to follow with the stroller. The room cannot accommodate all of us. Flustered, I pick up Andrew, leave the stroller outside and squeeze us all inside. I sit down and open the box, briefly examine its emptiness, its potential to shield me from the imposition of the martyr’s wife identity.