Beneath the Same Heaven

by Anne Marie Ruff

  “Life is predictably unpredictable, my dear,” her mother says. “That shouldn’t surprise you.”

  Kathryn takes a sip of coffee. “But I’m too old for this kind of upheaval, I’ve worked too long to order my world and raise my boys.”

  Her mother lets out a little chirpy laugh. “And I’m not too old to adjust to losing my husband? I’m not too old to give refuge to my daughter?” She points at the bowl of brown-skinned potatoes, “Don’t forget to cut out the eyes. Life never guarantees you anything, never owes you anything.”

  “Maybe life doesn’t, but I would think Andrew owes me something. Maybe I should call him for a videochat. Can I call him from your number?”

  “As you like, but you know I don’t bother with the video. Except for the boys, everyone looks better in my imagination anyway.” She chops a tough carrot into bite-sized pieces. “And what would you tell him? How would you convince a smart young man, who still believes in his own immortality, that you were right, that you know better than him?”

  Kathryn stops peeling. “Did I make a mistake? Did I do the wrong thing by not telling him anything about his father?”

  The older woman doesn’t hesitate at the chopping block. “Maybe. Maybe you made a mistake in marrying Rashid. Or maybe I made a mistake in letting you go to Dubai. Or maybe we all made a mistake in electing the wrong government.” She reaches into the refrigerator for an onion. “But so what if we did make those mistakes? There’s nothing to do about it now. My life these days is about one day at a time, things are what they are. I no longer hope to change the world or to be right. Mostly I’m sure to enjoy the beauty that comes into my life, to be kind to everyone, to understand that everyone around me is fragile with fear and anxious for love.”

  Kathryn sighs, trying not to show her irritation. “So what should I do about Andrew?”

  “Just be patient. He has to process in his own way. And peel some garlic.”

  Despite the updated furniture, her childhood bedroom seems somehow frozen in time. She remembers looking out the window at the redwoods and the roses her mother tried to coax from under their shadows, and she remembers dreaming of exotic places. She had not yet known the names of Karachi or Shanghai, Marrakesh or Bangladesh, but she had wanted her world to be bigger, more exciting than the suburban landscape of her friends and their school. She had not yet understood the unpredictable and dangerous territory she had carried within her own heart. Perhaps she would have been safer, happier if she had stayed put, married a local boy, or a college classmate. Her mother annually amassed a stack of Christmas cards from friends whose children had raised their families close to home, with updates of winter ski vacations, and spring trips to Mexico. Why had she thought she should have something more, as if their comfortable contentment was somehow provincial and narrow? What good had her adventures brought to her, or her family, or anyone? Only suffering.

  She pulls back the covers on the single bed, slides in between the cold sheets and waits for the sleeping pill her mother gave her to take effect.

  Kathryn and her mother sit down with their dinner in front of the screen, as they have for the last week. Rajiv Khan, an Indian with a perfectly mainstream American accent, moderates two intentionally inflammatory guests as they debate the implications of a son representing his father.

  “The question is whether he can provide honest representation, free of emotional manipulation,” one white man posits.

  “You’re worried about whether or not the representation is good?” the other white man responds. “We should be more concerned about how we’re going to find a suitable punishment for Rashid Siddique’s admitted role in the 2010 double freeway bombing.”

  Rajiv interjects. “But surely this is the most unusual legal representation we’ve seen in decades. A child, who believed his father was dead, a son, just barely out of law school, advocates for lenient sentencing for his father who has suddenly reappeared in his life. Not even any of the Guantanamo Bay prisoners had such unusual representation.”

  “Don’t make either of them into a celebrity. This was a man who attacked his own country,” the first pundit counters.

  “…his adopted country,” the host clarifies.

  “…but the native country of his wife and children, and he brutally attacked his fellow Americans.”

  The newscast cuts to images of the attack, the destruction on the freeways. Kathryn turns off the screen. “Nothing new tonight. I hope Michael isn’t watching any of this. He’s really put himself in the middle of the stage.”

  “Are you worried?” her mother asks.

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Well, is there anything you can do at this point? Can you convince him to walk away? Can you protect him from the media, the commentators, from here at the end of my driveway?”

  Kathryn looks down at her food, shakes her head.

  “Then stop worrying, it doesn’t help anyone. You’ve raised that boy as best you could. Michael is a man now, you’ve got to let him go.”

  Kathryn turns her spoon in her hand. “It’s so hard. I feel so guilty for putting him in this situation.”

  “Of course it’s hard. Do you think it was easy for me to sit back and watch you make one risky decision after another?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like moving to Dubai.”

  “But Dad moved overseas.”

  “He already had a job when he was leaving, and he was a man. And then you went to Pakistan.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “What difference would it have made?” her mother asks without any hint of resentment. “You were an adult, I didn’t want to threaten our relationship by being the voice of doubt.”

  Kathryn’s phone rings, Michael’s image appears on the little screen. Kathryn rushes to answer it. “Michael! Michael, how are you doing? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine Mom, a little tired, but this is an amazing process. You can’t imagine the kinds of people who are calling to talk to me.”

  “What do you mean? Like who?” Concern tugs in her belly, she imagines international terrorists viewing her vulnerable son as sympathetic.

  “Academics, constitutional law types, elected officials, Pakistani businessmen, even a publisher who wants me to write a book. I couldn’t have engineered an opportunity like this if I tried. Amazing.” He sounds breathless, almost giddy.

  “What’s happening with you and your…what is happening with Rashid’s case? I mean, besides what I’m seeing in the news.”

  “Rashid. Like I told you last week, he has a very simplistic idea of what we should be doing, I’m glad he didn’t go by himself, they would’ve given him the death penalty in a heartbeat. And he’s very old-world in some weird ways. He wants to have every negotiation in person, he doesn’t trust phone calls or emails. Sometimes he’ll work through a video call.”

  “How’s he treating you? How are you getting along?”

  “Oh, he’s great usually. He falls all over himself to be grateful, but he says he doesn’t care what happens to him, he’s only worried about us.”

  “What do you mean?” Kathryn lifts the curtain to scan the yard from the kitchen window.

  “Well, there are some parts of his testimony that’re still unclear, like who paid him while he was in Pakistan and how he got back to the U.S. And he refuses to give any information, says it could jeopardize his American family’s safety. That makes the feds crazy because they think he can link them to some larger terrorist organization. In fact, some people I’ve talked to are even suggesting some unbelievable things like allowing him to live free in Pakistan so they could use him like bait to see what bigger fish they could catch. It’s infuriating that he won’t tell me everything, because I’m his lawyer, but he tells me that I’m his son first.”

  “You’re my son…too. Please be careful, you can’t be sure of everything you’re dealing with.”

  “Don’t worry. I am careful. Mom…he’s asked to talk
with you via video. I’ve negotiated with the judge to allow two minutes, with a federal investigator observing. Are you willing to talk to him?”

  Kathryn looks up at her mother, seeing only her inscrutable calm. “What does he want to talk with me about?”

  “He says it’s strictly personal. Wants to tell you something from his heart.”

  “Maybe he could just tell you and you could tell me?”

  “I told you he’s adamant about this face-to-face stuff. I negotiated pretty hard for it Mom, I hope you’ll agree.”

  “When would it happen?”

  “Tomorrow, morning. 9am Pacific time.”

  “Can I think on it a little while?”

  “How long?” he asks, obviously disappointed.

  “I’ll call you in the morning?”

  “I have back-to-back meetings starting at 8am. Can you call me back tonight? Doesn’t matter how late it is.”

  “All right, I’ll call you back tonight. And Michael…”

  “Yes Mom?”

  “I love you. Please be careful.”

  “Of course. I love you too, and send my love to Grandma.” She can hear another phone ring on Michael’s end. “Gotta run. Call me tonight.”

  Kathryn’s mother cuts another piece of beef for herself, waiting for Kathryn to speak.

  “Mom, Rashid wants to speak with me by video.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “I guess not. I just don’t know what the point would be.” Through her fear, she feels a longing.

  “Remind me of one of your rules,” Kathryn’s mother smiles gently, “one of your Capen Codes, the one about regret.”

  “No regrets.” Kathryn pauses, almost embarrassed, before repeating one of the rules she taught her boys to memorize. “We live our lives the best we know how. If something goes wrong, change your behavior, you can’t change the past.”

  “Yes. I always liked that one. I actually used that a couple of times, changed my mind about things because I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be tempted to regret my decision later.”

  Kathryn looks again at her phone. “So are you saying I should take the call?”

  “No, just suggesting you think about which decision you might regret.”

  Kathryn sits before a computer screen, waiting. She sees the Department of Justice seal and hears a voice.

  “Kathryn Capen, please be advised that your communication with Rashid Siddique will be monitored by the Department of Justice and the Department of Homeland Security. While your communication cannot be quoted as testimony, the Departments reserve the right to question either of you regarding anything discussed or implied. Do you agree to these conditions?”

  “I do.”

  “Thank you for your understanding Ms. Capen. You will now be connected.”

  From a small concrete room, Rashid sits in a prison jumpsuit, his wrists and ankles shackled, the chain locked to a metal hook in the floor. He knows beyond the mirrored window in front of him observers will scrutinize his every expression. But he hears nothing, sees only the image of himself, tired and weathered, for long minutes.

  Suddenly Kathryn’s image appears on the screen, calm but guarded. She waits for him to speak. In contrast to all of the stark hardness of his surroundings, the still beautiful curves of her face leave him grasping for words.

  “Rashid, you only have two minutes,” Kathryn prompts. “Please, go ahead and tell me what you planned to say.”

  “Yes…I don’t have much time. I need to tell you…I want to say…you…you had hurt me very badly.”

  Kathryn wrinkles her eyebrows.

  “When I realized that the boys knew nothing about me, it was as if you’d killed me.”

  She flares her nostrils. “How dare you twist this around.”

  “Wait,” he tries to raise a hand to stop her, the clank of the metal chain stops him short. “But I’ve been thinking about your decision, until now. You protected them. And you did me a very good favor, even. Because Michael didn’t know anything about me, he’s been able to see me…see me for who I am, he understands me in a way I never imagined when I was dreaming about the three of you all those years.”

  She nods, unsure how to respond.

  “I know I have to finish this quickly. I just wanted to tell you, no matter what happens I hold nothing against you. I have forgiven you. I have even forgiven America. I have no more anger.” He looks down, closes his eyes and looks up again. “And I have no regrets. It was all written.” He lifts a finger and lowers his head so the finger can trace the line of his forehead.

  “Ten seconds, Rashid,” a man’s voice cuts into the line.

  “Please understand that I did what I had to do, and so did you. I wish it could have been different, but I am grateful to you for…”

  The line cuts off. The connection ends.

  Kathryn slumps forward, suddenly limp, and lets out a whimper.

  Rashid exhales, hears the chain again as he adjusts his feet.

  “What fucking business does he have telling me he forgives me? Excuse my French Mother, but for God’s sake, what do I need to be forgiven for? What good does that do me?”

  Kathryn’s mother pours water into the coffee maker, preparing the second pot of the morning. “He isn’t doing it for you. He’s unburdening himself. Making amends where he can and letting go of everything else. Think about it…he held so strongly to his clan culture and his anger that he was willing to plan a bomb attack. Then he held so strongly to his dream of you that he believed after twenty years he could reunite.” She pours in the coffee grounds. “Obviously something has happened and he’s given up the dream of you. He’s given up his innocence. He’s even willing to give up his life, so why should he hold on to his anger, his feeling of injustice?” She opens the cupboard and pulls out a box of cookies. “Your father did something similar when he was dying. He talked about all of the disagreements he’d had with colleagues, the jabs they had made in articles and lectures. It was as if he inventoried every little injury that he still remembered, and then he laughed about them. ‘What did they matter?’ he said. ‘When you were by my side the whole time?’”

  “If this is about Rashid letting go of everything, then why bother with dragging Michael into it? Why’s he putting my son at the center of the ordeal?”

  Kathryn’s mother sits down, sets the box of cookies in front of her daughter. “If you ask me, this thing with Michael isn’t about Rashid, Michael’s doing it because Michael needs to.”

  “Well, what did he think I would do…” Kathryn picks up an earlier train of thought. “…sing my kids songs about his heroic revenge? Did he think I’d tell them bedtime stories about the bravery of one man against a whole nation? I mean he fucking planned to blow up a freeway.” Her hands tremble, she tries to repress the memory of these hands caressing the same man.

  Her mother pushes the box of cookies toward Kathryn.

  “Mom, can I tell you something?” She takes a cookie, crumbs falling. “I’m jealous, I’m not proud of this, but I raised that boy, I made sure he learned to be a man, and now he devotes himself completely to defending his guilty father.” She looks away, bites her lip. “How am I supposed to feel?” she says shrilly.

  “You need to feel everything you feel. You can’t avoid it, pain, anger, shame, whatever your heart tells you. But you can’t hold it here,” the older woman pulls her arms in, protecting her heart. “Life goes on.”

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Rashid stands patiently in front of a locked door as the guard locks another door behind him. The transfer from his cell to the room where he can meet with his lawyer strikes him each time as unnecessarily elaborate. What would he do if there were less security? Run away? Plant another bomb? Once the guard opens the door ahead of him, Rashid sees Michael’s face light up. Could there be anything more exquisite? Could a father ever want for more than his son’s love? Would he feel as grateful, would his chest swell with wonder in the
same way if he had grown accustomed to this kind of interaction? His life since he decided to surrender has revealed itself like a string of jewels, a series of interactions with Kathryn and Michael, crystalline new memories, separated by long periods of quiet in which to enjoy each facet, to marvel at the complexity of love.

  “Rashid, how are you?”

  He has no words to adequately express his state. “Fine, I’m fine. And how are you?”

  They do not touch. Rashid sits in a molded plastic, prison-safe chair, across a featureless table from his son. The door behind them closes with the sound of a metal deadbolt turning.

  Michael leans forward on the table. “The feds are very close to agreeing to our requests. You know that last week I had gotten them to agree to hold you in a minimum security penitentiary, but they wanted you to be on the east coast, one of the facilities where they send people from the D.C. jurisdiction. I argued against it. The D.C. jurisdiction has no bearing, the defendant was from California, the crime was in California. So they’re considering locating you in a facility in San Louis Obispo. The weather’s fantastic, the facility has a library, you’d be placed with other low security…” he hesitates over the word prisoners, “…with low security threats.”

  “You know, Michael, beta, I’ll go wherever is decided. I have no more desires for myself.”

  Michael shakes his head, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, which Rashid mistakes as a glance toward heaven. “I know you keep saying that, but I want you to be in a place where I could see you. So I’m even trying to negotiate for enhanced visiting privileges. But…”

  “But…?”

  “They want some additional information about your contacts, the people who arranged for all of your passports, the people who provided the funds for you and Ali.” Michael hesitates; he has conveyed the request already, dozens of times, phrased in every imaginable way.

  Rashid shakes his head, only once, as he has done with each request. “I told you, the source of most of that information was Ali. He never revealed his contacts to me. I never asked. Were they Al Qaeda? I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. I knew only he served my purpose.”