Beneath the Same Heaven

by Anne Marie Ruff

  I smile. I am starting. The new identity is emerging. I can do this.

  I pour another glass of wine and pull the stack of letters toward me. I sift through them. A couple of credit card bills, a regular insurance statement, some junk mail, and an odd-looking envelope—no forwarding sticker and the return address of my old apartment building in Los Angeles. The address, typed directly on the envelope says: Kathryn Siddique, c/o Ted Capen, followed by Ted’s address. I hold the envelope before me, try to stare it down, as if it is some kind of challenge. I gulp my wine, and push the other letters out of the way. I study the postmark, Los Angeles, dated yesterday. I carefully tear at the corner of the flap, anxious at the thickness of the contents. The tear reveals another envelope inside, which I slide out and turn over. I recognize words I have seen before. For the Family of Rashid Siddique.

  God damn it. How did this get here? I feel the flimsiness of my efforts, the residue of lipstick at the edges of my lips. I want to throw this envelope out, to call Ted back and demand he take it away, to complain to the post office about this intrusion into my place of exile. My hands shake as they tear open the inner envelope. Hundred dollar bills, the bewildering, infuriating symbols of value that someone is forcing into my life. I count them out, exactly the same amount as before.

  I want to scream. I want to escape. I stand up and open the front door, step out into the chilly night air, look at the sky, clench my fists. I feel no relief. I turn around and storm to the bathroom, wash my face with very hot and then with very cold water. The mask is gone, the same grey woman of days past looks out at me. But in my chest the depression of the previous weeks gives way to defiance. Fuck it. I will fight it. I will never be the martyr’s wife.

  I return to the kitchen, pull out an unopened bottle of Scotch. I pour myself a hefty quantity and throw it back in two gulps. I stand over the sink, waiting for the alcohol to perform its task, to dull my perception. And when I start to feel the distance, the disassociation, I slide the money to the inner and outer envelopes, before shoving it into the darkest recess of my purse, until I can deliver it to the darkness of the safety deposit box, from where it cannot harm me.

  I prepare for sleep, lying beneath the covers, eyes wide open, limbs stock straight. The weight of my body burdens me. I cannot tolerate the unease, the encroachment of this money. I throw off the covers and head to the bathroom, desperate for something to do. An impulse to purge overwhelms me, so I strip off my clothes. The mirror reflects my body. How long since I have noticed it? I spread a towel on the tiled floor and lay down on it, closing my eyes, bringing my hands to my skin, feeling my belly. I move my hands down my thighs, feel the muscles tighten as I lift my hips off the floor. I feel my own touch in my long-dormant sex. The contact rustles a sensation, a flow of warmth as my body reacts. My actions are thoughtless, devoid of emotion. I simply long for the energy, the nerves firing in once familiar ways. My fingers press inside my body, registering heat, moisture, pressure. I ride my hips up and down, without a partner. I press against myself, without tenderness, with only a need to reach a limit. And the orgasm arrives, radiating through my pelvis, a wave passing through my consciousness. I hold, hoping to grasp it, to make it last, to dwell in the heat. I laugh. I have asserted some authority, some independence within my tiny geography. I do not need a man. But the pleasure passes, like a handful of steam.

  The same young banker opens the bank vault door for me. Today, his tie catches my attention, an abstract dragon impaled on a knight’s sword. He notices my look. “We’ve all got dragons to slay. But mostly I just use lollipops.” He smiles and pulls a handful of candies out of his pocket.

  I wave my hand to refuse them, step past him, lugging Andrew, asleep, in his car seat. The man leaves and I bolt the door, then lean my head against it, wanting to cry. I remember last night’s dream, the nightmare. I heard an explosion, saw fragments of red cloth in the air. A man had come to me, wearing a white turban, like the terrorists we see on television. I could not see his face, but knew he was Rashid. He pushed me to the ground, kicked me in the back. I tried to scream but could make no sound.

  It was only a dream, I tell myself, even as my lungs tighten with the memory.

  Enough. I should finish this task quickly. I fumble with the keys. Will the FBI know about this? Try to subpoena this box? I reach for the envelope in my bag and drop it inside. I slam the cover closed, trying to prevent even the fragrance of the contents from escaping.

  As Andrew and I round the corner of Ted’s house, I am startled by two men in coveralls checking the gas meter on the side of the backhouse.

  “Hello?” I call out, to alert them to my presence.

  Only one looks up, “Hello ma’am, just checking your meter.” The other man quickly gathers his tools.

  I nod, but do not move toward the door, I feel safer in the open air of the garden. The first man jots something in a little notebook and they make their way out of the yard, past the gas meter on Ted’s house, without another word.

  “More steak?” Janet offers me the platter, three sizable fillets remaining.

  I help myself to another piece. I see Ted smirk as I begin slicing. I feel so hungry, ravenous.

  Janet refills our wine glasses with an expensive wine. The girls chatter away about a reality fashion show.

  “Seems like you, my little sister, have discovered a taste for some expensive things, huh?”

  “What do you mean, Ted?”

  “Well, you know that all the shopping you’ve been doing doesn’t come free, right? Soon enough, the credit card companies come knocking.”

  “Sure. I’ll deal with that later. For now I need to give my kids what they need.” I bring a forkful of potatoes to Michael’s mouth, urging him to eat more.

  “Right…but I expect pretty quick you’re going to look around and figure out that you need a job. We aren’t made of money, you know. That backhouse isn’t paying its own mortgage.”

  I look up, fork mid-air, feel my stomach drop in fear. I try to read his expression through his well-trimmed goatee.

  “I’ll get the dessert,” Janet says, leaving for the kitchen.

  “Ted, is it time for me to leave? Are you asking us to leave?”

  “Look, there’s no rush. I’m just saying this isn’t a permanent situation, hiding out with us. You’re going to have to get a job, get your own place, make your own life.”

  He stresses the word own, as if I had somehow been living his life, her life, their life.

  “Is this about the money, Ted? As soon as the insurance settlement comes I can pay you for the movers and the utilities. We can even work out some kind of back rent.”

  “No, Kathryn,” he catches Janet’s eye before she sets down a chocolate cake. “It’s not about the money…” he pauses, brings his hands to rest on his lap.

  “Is that why you called out the meter readers today, to see how much electricity I’m using?”

  “What?” He looks at me with a combination of confusion and disgust. “Nobody called any meter readers. We don’t even have a meter on the back house, there’s only one meter, one utility bill.”

  I set my wine glass down, thinking back to the afternoon, trying to recall the name of the agency on the van or the men’s coveralls.

  Ted continues. “I have a buddy, a guy at the San Diego Sentinel, sports section editor. He says they’re always looking for good writers and editors. I told him about you.”

  “Ted, I specialize…I have specialized in foreign policy, I don’t know anything about sports,” I say derisively.

  “Oh, I know you specialize in all things foreign. Tell me, how’s that working out for you?”

  My cheeks flush. I have no retort.

  He leans his elbows on the table, his tan forearms exposed. “I don’t think your old journal is going to be calling for your services right about now. So maybe you should think about a little reinvention of your brainiac self.”

  I push my fork to the edge of my
plate, look down, feeling the same diminution as when our father would lecture me at the dinner table, pontificating on some topic ostensibly for my own good.

  “Use your imagination, sports is more than just football and locker room reporting.”

  Michael whispers in my ear, “Can I be excused?” I nod, he and his cousins head for the TV.

  “Look, why don’t you just meet my buddy for lunch. It never hurts to meet some new people.”

  I pause a moment too long, unintentionally allow Ted a final volley.

  “It’s not like anyone else wants to talk to you.”

  “Ted!” Janet admonishes from the kitchen.

  “I meant professionally.”

  I feel sick. Why did I eat so much?

  “I’ll tell him to expect your call.”

  I step out of the back house, careful not to wake the sleeping children with the creaking door hinge. I hear crickets, let my eyes adjust to the moonlight. I scan the garden before making my way to the side of the house where I had seen the men earlier today. I walk past the lupines and sage, the toyons and native grasses that Janet has cultivated. In this idyllic setting, my suspicion strikes me as paranoia. What made-for-TV movie do I think I am part of? I stand in the place where I saw the men, notice the gas pipe coming up out of the ground and entering the wall at waist level. The shutoff valve is turned perpendicular to the pipes, as it should be so the gas will flow to the stove and the heater. At the top of the pipe, at the junction with the house I see a little metal box enclosure. Not a meter, not a joint in the pipe, not anything that looks functional. I reach for it, feel for a latch, a hinge, some opening. Nothing. I look at the unusual octagonal screws that hold it in place. No regular screwdriver would open them. I look down at the ground, notice what looks in the moonlight like paint flakes on the gravel, as if the wall had just been screwed today.

  I shiver. Gravel crunches as I step back and look again at the metal box.

  I return to the house, relieved the boys have not moved in their sleep. I stand in front of the stove, approximating the position of the gas line. I climb up onto the counter to peer behind the stove. What do I expect to see? A tiny camera? A little microphone? I wouldn’t even know what they would look like, if in fact someone had bugged the kitchen. I run my hand down the wall in the little gap between the stove and the drywall. I feel only dust. In the quiet of the house a voice begins in my head, person of interest the voice repeats over and over. I am a person of interest, surveillance is required. From the edge of the cupboard my hand frightens out a spider, his long thread-like legs carrying him to safety behind the refrigerator.

  The house must be bugged, the FBI would not have spent so much time questioning me only to let me go freely. I imagine that all of my actions are being observed, I start to feel self conscious. What happens if they know I am aware of their surveillance? What are they expecting to see me do? How long have the cameras been here?

  I slide off the counter and stand in front of the stove as if an actor on a stage. I smooth my hair with my fingers, brush the dust off my pants. I clear my throat and address the stove. “If you are observing me, let me just tell you directly. I know nothing I haven’t already told you. I did not know of any plot before the…” I hesitate, I have tried not to speak of the incident—the reporters have dubbed it the double freeway bombing—since I arrived in San Diego. “I didn’t know of anything before the bombing. I’ve not had any contact from anyone of interest since the event.” I think of the cash-filled envelopes. Did they see me open the second one a few days ago? Do my eyes blink in a telltale expression of deceit? No, my statement is true. I have not had contact with anyone. I have only had contact, unwanted contact, with someone’s money.

  “So stop watching me. I have nothing you want. I’m just trying to start a new life, to raise my boys. Leave me alone!” In the silence that follows, the stove does not respond, my imagined audience does not react. How absurd I must seem, addressing an appliance. So I start to dance, I sing a song from Sesame Street. I tap dance with an imaginary muppet. Is some intelligence agent laughing somewhere? Would he call his colleagues to watch? Pronounce me emotionally unbalanced? As I come to the end of the song’s lyrics I turn around, stick my backside to the stove and slap it with a satisfying crack. “And fuck you!” I say with a bitter smile over my shoulder.

  As I stand, Michael startles me. He is perched on the edge of the bed, a bewildered expression on his face.

  “Michael,” I exclaim, as much embarrassed as surprised. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “What’re you doing? Who are you talking to Mommy?”

  “Um,” I stall, “I was just playing.”

  The corners of his eyes turn up with interest. “Playing?” He slides off the bed, and reaches out for my hand. “Can I play, too?”

  I start to refuse, beginning to retrieve my stock excuses about how late it is, how much sleep he needs. But I see the wonder in his eyes that I might play again.

  “Yes. Yes! Come and play with me.” I lead him to the circle of light in the kitchen. “Same song again?”

  He nods enthusiastically and we begin singing together, shuffling our feet and tapping our toes. When the song ends, Michael suggests another, one I don’t know as well. We sing until my remembered lyrics run out. When his run out a few lines later, I jump back in, making up the words, singing about Michael, lines about a little boy who is strong and fantastic, shmantastic, absolutely grantastic. He giggles at first and then laughs, one lungful and then another, waves of giant, trilling laughter. The sound is so delightful, so magnetic that it draws out more songs. Row, row, row your goat, quickly all in green, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is just whipped cream. He doubles over, holding his stomach, rolling on the floor.

  “Stop! Stop!” he cries gulping for air, “I can’t breathe…more… sing another one.”

  And I sing. I sit down on the floor and gather him in my lap, singing an imaginary world for us of animals eating with chopsticks, boys floating to the moon with toy tops, mothers who cook nothing but saltwater taffy. Let them listen to me, let them watch. My only crime is loving this child, lavishly, helplessly, as if my life depended upon it.

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  Giant Chinese lions guard the restaurant gates. I approach, the keys to my certified pre-owned Ford economy car jingling from my fingers. I pause to check my appearance in the glass doors. I had blow dried my hair, applied my red lipstick and pulled on a pair of so-called premium jeans that Janet chose for me. I am a persuasive simulation of a normal American woman. I should be able to convince Ted’s friend that I have a newfound passion for sports.

  Oscar Ramirez spots me quickly, waves me over from his seat in an oversize booth, two menus on the table. He stands to greet me with a cheerful handshake, “So nice to meet you, welcome to San Diego.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

  We exchange pleasantries, ask a few innocuous questions, establishing our provenance, delicately gathering information, like dogs sniffing circles around each other.

  By the time the waitress comes I have decided that his immigrant background vouches for a certain open mindedness and his polished English vocabulary belies a considerable intelligence.

  I order spicy pork with fried rice. He smiles, nods, requests the house special, rich man’s curry and rice.

  “So I’ll get to the point,” Oscar says, “I can hire freelancers and if they work out, I can usually bring them on for a full-time position. Ted says you can write anything, and I saw from your resume that you have impeccable journalism credentials.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I’ve made my living as a writer. I’m sure you also saw from my resume that I haven’t done sports writing before. But I’m a quick study,” I try to sound eager.

  He fiddles with the chopsticks in their paper wrapper. “I’m sure. We don’t have too many Stanford graduates writing for the sports section, or
too many women really. It would be great if we could draw more female readers to the section. Maybe with some non-traditional story angles.”

  I have thought about this, actually considered some of the things that might make this job a legitimate pursuit for me. “That’s an interesting idea, maybe a series on female Olympians in the middle of the Olympic cycle, or looking at the rise of more female-oriented sports like tennis and volleyball.”

  He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow in polite consideration. “We were actually thinking more along the lines of stories about the Williams sisters’ clothes designers, or interviews with the wives of some of the high-profile players on the big teams.” He proceeds to rattle off men’s names, presumably those who can demand enormous salaries. I nod politely, trying to bluff that I recognize any of the names as my stomach turns at his chauvinistic ideas.

  The waitress comes, splashing tiny puddles of frigid water on the table as she places enormous water glasses in front of us.

  “Sure,” I concede, “whatever you assign I can cover.” I reach for the bright red plastic straw, draw hard with my inhale.

  “That was my attitude when I first came to the Sentinel. Whatever they asked of me. I figured that over time I’d work my way up so I could choose my own stories.” He leans in, hinting at the confidence he is about to reveal, “I thought I was so much smarter than my editors, thought they were dumbing the paper down. ‘The people aren’t just dogs,’ I told them, ‘they know how to read, they want to learn things.’” He sits back, draws imaginary graph lines on the table, “But they have market research, demographic studies, all kinds of data about what newspaper readers want and what kind of readership our best advertisers require.”

  I listen, surprised by his frankness.

  “I realize now the sports section is just a part of the business. If the paper makes money, I make money.” He looks me in the eye. “My family’s from Juarez, I’m sure you’ve seen the news about Juarez? The drug cartels are waging a war there over territory, over the border and access to the American market. People are dying for making the wrong alliances, stepping into other peoples’ revenge killings. I’ve got two kids, one at UC San Diego and another here in high school. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep those kids here instead of in Juarez.”