And there it is, Holly thought. Another bad relationship on the cusp, but she responded. “I understand.” And she did. She understood he had a wife and kids. She understood he was off limits.
“But after I do show it to you, you and I never had this conversation.”
She played along and held her hands up feigning ignorance. “What conversation?”
“Oh, and one more thing, may I remind you there’s a council meeting the first week of January?”
“Right, and my apologies I missed the last one. I spaced it out.”
“Maybe it’s time you learned to use a calendar, carry a personal organizer—”
“What can I say? I’m not tech savvy. Besides, it was right around Thanksgiving, you know, the holidays.”
They both finished their coffee in silence. Holly looked out the window as a few ice crystals swirled in the wind and deflected off the glass. The memory of dancing around her apartment the evening before floated in and out of her mind. She leaned her head against the cold window and tilted her face so she could see the sky, see her father’s image reflected in the clouds.
Still looking up, she asked, “John, have you ever been to the Contemporary Art Museum in St. Louis?” She thought of Penndel’s warning. She could imagine standing in Joe’s center with John beside her and looking up at the sky. She could even imagine telling him about how Joe made her feel, but she couldn’t imagine how he would handle it. Would something like Joe, or contemporary art in general, interest him? She had no idea. In truth, she knew very little about the man across from her.
“I’ve heard of it, but no. Why?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
23
February 14, 2010
John stood at his office window and stared at the lack of traffic in and out of the flower shop. The county courthouse sat grandly in the middle of the square and law offices littered the neighborhood, but still he hadn’t seen anyone go in or out all afternoon. Maybe Valentine’s Day wasn’t a big deal anymore. It was still a big deal at his house. Gifts were expected. So, he’d made a point of ordering the requisite bouquet of flowers and had them delivered to the community college where Kathy taught remedial English part time.
He looked around the square. Many of the retail stores had already closed, including Kathy’s favorite steak house, the one he’d always taken her to for their anniversaries. He worried that the remaining retail establishments—a family-owned clothing store, the hardware store that had long been the anchor around the square, Heather Briggs furniture store, and the used bookstore—would be empty before long, too. The only jeweler in town was set to close. It’s ‘Going Out of Business’ sign hanging from the awning had just been replaced with ‘Last Day’.
Earlier that morning while at the flower shop, he’d become preoccupied with thoughts of Holly. He found himself thinking of buying a present for her, too. Nothing fancy. Just a modest gift. A token of his appreciation for serving on the town council. Of course, he’d never given anyone else on the council a Valentine’s Day gift. But, truth be told, he’d known most of them his whole life and none of them deserved a token of his appreciation.
Besides, Holly was single, and had no significant other. She was just a friend and colleague. So why not? It wasn’t like he was trying to court her. Yes, they’d danced around their obvious attraction and often flirted like teenagers, but they’d both backed away from the edge when it got too hot. No, this would just be a gesture of kindness, and what was wrong with that? That settled the notion. He’d buy Holly a small box of chocolates.
He waved to Heather Briggs who watched him walk by as she worked on a window display at the furniture store, and went around the corner and down the two blocks to Sally’s Gifts & Memories. The woman who bought out the original Sally’ went to the small Korean Baptist Church out by the airport, and Veranda doubted she would ever cross paths with his wife.
He took an inordinate amount of time choosing, but finally settled on a small heart-shaped box of Whitman’s chocolates adorned in lustrous imitation gold and wrapped in a silky red ribbon, so small it fit in the palm of one hand. A modest gift.
Whistling, with the decorative bag dangling from his fingertips, Veranda walked the three blocks to Holly’s bungalow. Her Mustang wasn’t parked beneath the carport or along the street. As he walked up onto her porch, he glanced into the front window and eyed the grand piano, its cover raised on its support stick. He longed to hear her play.
Holly’s neighbor opened her front door to let her mewling cat in, and, seeing John, waved at him. Veranda nodded to the woman, and it occurred to him then that he no longer knew anyone who lived in this part of town. Still, he felt his face flush and his ears grow hot. Hurriedly, he opened the screen door, set the gift down, and gently closed the door. Without glancing back at the neighbor, he hurried down the steps and back to his office.
David Sugarman’s call came in around 4:30 p.m. After business hours back east, John noted. And months after the conversation Stuart Eisenstat and he supposedly never had.
“I’m damn glad to hear from you. I was beginning to think—” Veranda stopped short nearly blurting out about his and Eisentstat’s conversation. Silly, he thought, Sugarman had to know of it.
“Think what, Mr. Veranda?”
“That you’d never get around to calling.”
“Ah, the government’s business always seems to take longer than we wish, doesn’t it? Patience is a virtue, but an absolute necessity within the confines of bureaucracy.”
“I thought it was the people’s business.” Sugarman didn’t comment, so Veranda continued, trying to make light-hearted conversation. “Stuart and I go way back. We knew each other in college and then lived together in law school.” Again, Sugarman was quiet. “Of course, Stuart was more studious, although when his girlfriend from Westbury showed up—”
Sugarman cut him off. “Let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?”
Veranda paused, suddenly uncomfortable. “You know, Dave—“
“It’s David.”
Day-Vid, Veranda mouthed. This guy already annoyed him. “No problem, David. Did Stuart tell you I used to live in DC?”
“No, he must have skipped that part of your CV.”
“As a legislative aide to Senator Tim Wamsler.” He hoped it didn’t come across as defensive, but he didn’t want this guy to think he was just a small-town lawyer in Flyover Country who could easily be steamrolled.
“I recall Wamsler didn’t last long.” Veranda detected a hint of a sneer in the man’s voice. No, it was more than a hint.
“Yes, only one term. But—“
“Mr. Veranda—”
“Please, call me John.”
Sugarman continued. “The department remains keenly interested in Saluki for our proposed facility. I’d like to bring my team out your way on February 28, two weeks from today.”
John scrambled around his desk to find a calendar. As he did so, he glimpsed a figure outside his window and realized it was Holly. She looked in through the stenciled lettering of his name etched on the glass.
Rattled, Veranda stammered. “Uh, fine, uh, now how many are in your party? I can set you up with hotel reservations. Of course, you are welcome to stay with me and my family.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It’s no trouble. We’ve got lots of room now that our boys are off to school. It would beat all the chain motels out by the Interstate. Or, you could stay in downtown St. Louis. It’s only an hour away.
Holly opened the door and John nearly dropped the phone. “Just a minute, please.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sugarman said.
“No, not you. Someone just came into my office.” He smiled at Holly and held up his finger with the proverbial ‘Just one moment’ sign.
“Mr. Veranda, I’m certain Mr. Eisenstat advised you that all our conversations, including this one, are confidential. That includes plans of our upcoming visit. All phone con
versations are to take place in private.”
What size corncob was shoved up this guy’s ass, anyway? “And, no email, text, or other written communication,” Sugarman added.
“Stuart made … I mean, no problem, David. Yes. Absolutely.” John put his finger to his lips to indicate silence to Holly. She mimicked him and then put her hands in the pockets of her rabbit-fur, waist-length jacket, the kind Veranda remembered being popular in the late seventies. Back then, he thought, that look was a little slutty. At this moment, though, he was rather fond of it. She smiled at him, and the bulge in his slacks tightened. He narrowed his eyes and imagined stripping that coat—along with everything underneath—off her shoulders. Of putting his lips on the curve of her neck. Of wrapping a finger in one of those curls. Of … Shit. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said, there’s no need to arrange accommodations, Mr. Veranda. Those details have already been taken care of. We’ll see you on the twenty-eighth, if that is acceptable.” The man’s tone indicated the date was non negotiable.
Holly placed the box of chocolates on a chair by the door, waved, and then stepped back outside, pulling his office door shut behind her.
“Yes, of course.” Veranda wanted to call Stuart and tell him to forget the whole damn thing. The hell with this Sugarman asshole. The hell with this Gitmo clusterfuck. The hell with the facility, the hell with this town.
“We’ll meet on the site, at 9:00 a.m. sharp. I’ll brief you on our objectives, we’ll have a look-see, and then be on our way.” Before Veranda could agree, Sugarman hung up.
Veranda stood and readjusted his trousers. Not only had the sun long set, his mood had gone with it. He went to the front room and picked up the box. He pulled the note from beneath the ribbon and read it aloud. “The warmth of your gesture was felt, even if I cannot accept the gift.” The note didn’t say he was wrong in giving it. His spirits lifted. Not accepting a gift and not appreciating it were two different things.
He stepped outside just as Holly turned the far corner and disappeared. A painful mixture of joy and sorrow shot through him. Along with a jolt of familiarity that he couldn’t make any sense of at all.
24
South Lebanon, 1981
As part of the Israeli-supported South Lebanese Army, Elias Haddad at least avoided the front lines of the battlefield. In the Syrian army, he had served in a sacrificial unit, human resources thrown at enemy lines to test the waters, clear the path for the higher value soldiers connected to the Ba’ath party regime. And he thanked the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, and any other god he didn’t know by name that he made it out of the Golan alive. Mercifully, the entire war lasted less than three weeks. He and several others in his unit were locked in an Israeli cell within forty-eight hours of the first shot.
When it came time to exchange prisoners, however, for some reason unbeknownst to him, Elias was held back. Similar to when he was detained at the Damascus airport, he received nothing but conflicting stories. Some men in the group said the Syrian regime only negotiated for elite members of their armed forces. Others said the Israelis would keep those with useful skills or valuable intelligence. When Elias asked if this was allowed under the Geneva Convention, the man next to him laughed. “The Israelis have nuclear bombs they’ve never admitted to. No one knows how they got them or who supplied them. They slaughtered the Palestinians in ’48. And too often we Arabs slaughter our own people, too.” The man shook his head and looked at Elias as if he were the dumbest man alive. “Do you think anyone around here cares about the Geneva Convention?”
In Damascus, they had taken him from the airport, put a uniform on him, thrust a gun into his hand, and sent him to the war. In South Lebanon, Elias was prized for his mechanical and repair skills, dispatched from one location to another to fix things, repair communication devices, vehicle engines, weaponry, anything with moving parts.
One day, as he worked on a damaged truck engine, one of his Israeli trainers asked him where he learned to fix things. “My father was a wool merchant in Aleppo,” Elias told him. “He traded with the Bedouin and was often away from home. As we grew up, my brothers went with him, but I had many diseases and illnesses as a child, so I stayed at home with my mother and sisters and learned to make myself useful by fixing things.”
The trainer looked at him. “You don’t seem sickly. You are strong.”
Elias smiled at the compliment. “Now maybe I am strong. But I suffered the mumps, malaria, measles, and every other childhood disease you can think of. Maybe all these hardships made me a survivor.” He turned to the trainer. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. In America.”
Elias’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you are Israeli.”
The man grinned, adjusting the semi-automatic strapped across his shoulder. “There are many Jews from Brooklyn who come to Israel to defend their birthright.”
“But why? Why would you leave America? It is such a great country.”
“America can defend itself. The Arabs want to drive the Jews into the sea.” Elias thought about this. He knew little about New York and didn’t remember if any American Jews lived in Joliet. As for Arabs driving the Jews into the sea, he had never been very political, but from what he’d seen in the Golan, that didn’t seem very likely.
“I also lived in America,” Elias told the trainer, “near Chicago, in the Illinois state.”
“That explains your good English!” the trainer said, grinning. “So how did you end up here?”
“I did not want to leave, but my father was gravely ill. Before I left to America, he warned me not to return home. But I did not listen. When I learned he was sick, I disobeyed him. I was told I should return to see him, that it might be my last chance.” Elias stared off into the distance a moment. “I think my family has disappeared. Maybe they never knew I came back. I don’t know. I never saw them. As soon as I arrived at the Damascus airport, I was detained.” He looked at the Israeli and shrugged.
“You were involuntarily conscripted? Had to fight against your will? That is a shame.”
“You are fighting by choice. Maybe this is also a shame.”
For a moment, the two men stood silently, staring down at their feet. Almost at once, both pulled out cigarettes. The trainer flicked his lighter, lit Elias’s and then his own. They both drew in a deep lungful of smoke and exhaled slowly.
“I learned many skills in the Boy Scouts, too.”
“You were a Boy Scout? In Syria?” The trainer asked, incredulous. “I had no idea.”
“Yes, it was something brought in by the French, the occupation many years before.”
“I was a Boy Scout in Brooklyn!”
Elias nodded sagely. “Life is quite strange, I think.”
“That’s an understatement.”
As endless weeks and months ticked by, Elias developed a reputation as an expert backgammon player. Challenged by his fellow soldiers, Lebanese and Israeli alike, he would talk to every opponent who would listen. Often, Elias’s stories encouraged the men on the other side of the board to tell their own stories and talk about their own wives or children, and about why they fought. “We understand what you’re going through, Elias,” one man said as he moved his pieces. “For thousands of years, Jews were just like you. Pushed out of our homes, forced out of our countries, stateless, just like you are now. This is why we support Israel,” he said. “So we always have a home to return to. A land that belongs to us.”
“The land that belongs to my ancestors is still there, still controlled by Syrians. The land that I was sent to, the land I adopted and loved and where I made a home is still there, too. But even if I wanted to live peacefully in Aleppo or to be with my wife and daughter, I could not. I am your prisoner.” Elias moved his pieces across the board. “First the Syrian Army took me and made me fight. Now you make me fight for you. Even though I have a home, I cannot return to it because
I am not free like you.”
“I am sorry about that.” The soldier studied the board without looking up. “Tell you what. If you let me win once in a while,” he said, grinning, “I’ll make some inquiries, try to find a way to help. My cousin knows someone who works at the American Embassy in Tel Aviv. Maybe she can find something out, some news about your wife and daughter.”
Elias leaned forward and gripped the man’s shoulder. Tears shone in his intense eyes, and he swallowed hard. “The board is yours, my friend.”
Two weeks later, Elias’s friend was transferred out of his unit, and Elias never heard from him again.
25
February 28, 2010
When David Sugarman called to say his team had arrived in St. Louis, John offered to drive into the city and meet them for dinner. Sugarman said that wasn’t necessary. John then suggested they meet at Egyptian Grounds, get acquainted over “the best coffee in the county” and then head to the site. Sugarman nixed that idea, too.
“We’ll meet at the southeast corner of the property.”
“Yes of course,” John deadpanned. “Who buys without first kicking the tires, right?” Sugarman didn’t offer so much as a faint chuckle, nor could John imagine a grin at the other end of the line. The idea of acting the obnoxious rube was beginning to grow on John just so he could piss this bureaucratic asshole off.
John had planned on getting to the site late, a bit of an “up yours” gesture for Sugarman. But due to morning traffic backed up on the bridge coming out of downtown St. Louis, the DC team was behind schedule. Three text messages later indicated they were cruising now and expected to arrive by ten. By that time, John had spent twelve dollars on coffee and another five on a muffin the size of his dog’s head.
Finally, he shoved the coffee shop door against a stiff breeze, hunched into his coat, and headed to his truck. On his way to the site, he passed by the home he grew up in, where his mother still lived, and the old farmhouse, repeatedly added on to and remodeled over the years, where he and Kathy lived, all part of the land his great grandfather had started farming at the turn of the last century. The Veranda ancestral estate, he liked to call it. Over the years, they’d sold off acreage when needed, and his father transitioned from farming to the legal profession. Both houses were set deep into the property, with their sprawling backsides mostly hidden by stands of trees and well-manicured hedges. He admired the row of fruit trees in his mother’s front yard, each surrounded by a passel of flowering plants she tended as if they were her babies. Often, first thing on a Sunday morning, while Kathy and his mother got ready for church, he’d walk the perimeter of the two properties with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and his old hound trotting at his side. That was his favorite part of the week. Although they both pestered him to go with them, he hadn’t been to church in months, joking that he only went often enough so that people in town would not think he and Kathy were having marital issues.
The Moment Before Page 18