The seven men sat in stunned silence. Their mouths gaped open as they stared with dry and unblinking eyes. It had been less than three minutes since the king had walked into the room. Three minutes to learn that he had killed their father, the crown prince, a hundred thousand Palestinians in the Gaza Strip, all the people in D.C. Three minutes to watch him shoot their older brother!
One of them looked down at the dead prince, who lay atop a spreading pool of dark blood.
It had to be a joke. It could not be real!
“King Abdullah,” he started, lifting his eyes to the king, “what are you saying?” His voice was high and rasping, panic rising with the wad of spit in his throat.
“Are you with me?” Abdullah demanded, his eyes blazing again. “Are you willing to work with me as we reorder the world?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t even know what you are talking about!”
Abdullah lifted the Colt and shot him.
The prince fell over dead.
Chapter Fifteen
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
The first night that Azadeh was in her home, Mary lay in her bed without moving, listening to the dark. She could hear Kelly Beth’s deep breathing just beside her and she suddenly panicked as she counted every breath.
How many precious breaths did her baby have left?
She lay there in near terror for an hour, but no matter how she tried she couldn’t help but count the breaths. Finally, in dark frustration, she pushed herself out of bed. Moving down the hall, she quietly opened the door to Azadeh’s bedroom and looked in on her. She could see only the girl’s outline in the dark, but it appeared she was asleep. Mary closed the door and walked quietly into the kitchen, moved to the window, and looked out on the night.
Just in front of her was another brick wall, another tenement building, dirty and blackened from a generation of soot. Five floors below her, a homeless man slept on the grate. Steam rose around him, but still he shivered from cold. Mary watched him, then turned her gaze to the only patch of night sky she could see from her valley of mortar and stone; there were no stars in East Chicago and she could not see the moon.
She reached out to open her dirty kitchen window, pushing up against three or four coats of white paint, but the window held tight. How long had it been since she had opened it up? She pressed upward again and the thin pane finally moved a few inches, allowing the cold air to blow inside.
She stood by the sink, letting the air chill her bare arms, and took a deep breath to savor the smell. The air came up from the park and carried a faint scent of trees and wet brush. It was quiet outside, at least as quiet as Chicago could be. With the taxis and MLK Highway, the elevated train on its track, music from the bars, and the thugs on the streets, she never heard actual silence, just a lessening roar. She glanced down at the drug dealers on the street corner. They were there every night, come heat, snow, rain, or shine, a permanent part of the sidewalk, like the cracks in the cement. The coming storm meant absolutely nothing to them. Nuclear war in the Middle East, even nuclear war in their own country, none of that mattered to these men on the streets or the addicts who lined up to get another hit.
At forty-three, the black woman was petite, with a thin face and small nose. Mary Shaye Dupree was an old southern name that went back three hundred years, back to the mistress of an old French plantation owner on the outskirts of New Orleans. But that was a long time ago, and Mary Shaye had no sense of her southern roots. Four generations before, her kin had migrated north, looking for jobs and freedom from the cotton fields, but she hardly knew about them or appreciated what they did.
Mary was a strong and fine-looking woman, but her strength was fading fast, for the world and its burdens were bringing defeat. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she shivered from the night air. She studied her reflection in the window, staring into her own eyes. Seeing the defeat, she turned quickly away.
Walking down the narrow hallway, Mary made her way back to her bedroom and stared at her daughter’s gaunt face in the dim light. The child was beautiful still, though her hair had grown thin and her lips had drawn tight. She was sleeping in pain; that was clear from her groans. As Mary stared at her, she felt the helpless pangs of despair. She was no longer angry—she only felt empty now.
The best thing she had ever done in her life was to take this little girl and bring her into her home. Some of her happiest moments had been when she held this child in her arms. For almost eight years she had loved her as if she were her own—maybe more, she didn’t know—all she knew was that she loved her until she couldn’t love any more.
And now her little girl was being taken, piece by piece, day by day. The vibrant laugh, the soft hugs, the wonderful smile—all of it fading, all of it dying away.
Kelly Beth opened her eyes and looked up at her mom.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mary said quietly.
“I had a weird dream,” Kelly Beth answered, her voice dragging out from fatigue.
“Tell me about it.” Mary sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know, Mom. It was so real. So clear. But I don’t get it.”
“That’s the way of dreams,” her mother answered softly.
Kelly Beth waited, catching her breath. “I was watching a funeral,” she began. “There was a horse and a wagon, and lots of military guys around, and this beautiful little girl, the funeral must have been for her dad. And when it was over, she looked up at the sky like she was talking to God.”
Her mother listened, then nodded. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No, Mom, and this is the part that I don’t get. While I was watching this funeral, it felt like it was for someone I knew, someone almost like a brother, I think.”
Her mother smiled, then pulled her close. “But you don’t have a brother, Kelly.”
The girl relaxed against her pillow. “But the feeling was so clear.”
Her mother patted her hand, then kissed her cheek. “Think about it,” she said, “and maybe you’ll figure it out.”
The little girl closed her eyes, exhaustion overcoming her again. Seconds later, she was asleep.
* * *
Mary watched her daughter for a long time, then wiped her eyes, stepped across the mattress, and lay down on her bed. Resting on her pillow, she stared up at the dark.
She was relieved and happy to have Azadeh here, but Kelly was fading quickly now, and Mary felt like it wasn’t fair to bring Azadeh into this situation after all that she had been through. But it was what it was, and there was nothing she could do.
Rolling over, she thought of the young men she had seen on the street. The two young preachers looked ridiculously out of place, like baby-faced monks in their white shirts and ties. “Go back to Utah!” one of the tenement neighbors had mocked them as they had walked down the street. The boys had smiled and waved to her, then continued on their way. That was two weeks before, and she had not seen them since.
The worried mother thought about them, then rolled across the mattress once again.
The night passed in silence, but sleep didn’t come, for the faces of the strangers seemed to haunt her somehow. Why couldn’t she forget them? It made no sense at all! Who were they, these preachers? And why did she burn inside?
“Find them!” a quiet voice seemed to cry in her soul. “I have a great work for your children. Go out and find them so they can save Kelly’s life!”
Chapter Sixteen
Mary got out of bed long before anyone else was awake. The sun was barely up and the city was still coated in dark hues. She checked Kelly Beth’s drip line, felt her face, then pulled on a T-shirt, sweatpants, and some old leather shoes. She wrote Azadeh a quick note, then let herself out of the apartment and headed for the stairs—easier and faster to walk five floors down than to wait for the elevator.
Crossing the noisy, six-lane street that ran in front of the housing complex, she dodged a dozen yellow cabs and police ca
rs. The riots had subsided, but the tension was still as thick as the smell of exhaust in the air and it seemed the cops were everywhere. Walking through the screen door at the old corner market, she headed immediately to the cooler, looking for some milk and eggs. The cooler was almost completely empty: A few sodas and some hot dogs were all it contained. She walked back to the counter and forced her most commanding voice. “Marlo, you swore to me that you’d have some dairy products by this morning.”
The large black man looked at her regretfully. “I’m sorry, Mary, I really am. They promised they’d send us a truck yesterday, but you know the gig, we’re the last ones in line. You think they’re going to bust their butts to get some stuff down here to East Side? I don’t think so, dear. We’ll get it when the white folks in midtown and Naperville are stocked up and fat.”
Mary leaned into the counter. “Marlo, you got to help me. You know what I’m going through with Kelly Beth. She has to have some milk with her morning medicine or she gets sick to her stomach. I’m not exaggerating, Marlo, she gets sick and throws up. You can’t do that to her. Please, isn’t there something you could do?”
The store owner shook his head. “I can’t turn water into milk. I can’t just make it appear. I’m not hiding anything in the back cooler. I just don’t have anything right now.”
Mary clenched her jaw in sadness and frustration. “So a bomb goes off in D.C. and the entire world falls apart. A bomb goes off in D.C. and all the milk and dairy products in Chicago disappear. It isn’t right, Marlo, I’m telling you it isn’t right.”
“Tell me about it, Mary. I haven’t slept in five days. Four nights in a row, I’ve had to stand guard by my front door. Do you know how many thugs I’ve had to scare away from my place?” He reached beneath the counter and stroked the shotgun he had hidden there. “I’m the only joint on the block that hasn’t been completely looted.”
Mary glanced behind her at the nearly bare shelves. “I don’t know, Marlo, it looks pretty well looted to me.”
The man only huffed. “The cops don’t care about any of us black store owners. The Koreans and Pakistanis up in Gary, they get taken care of, but us folks down here in the projects, we got to fend for ourselves.”
Mary shrugged and looked around. “Any bread?” she said.
Marlo seemed to stop and think before reaching down below the counter. Feeling beside the shotgun, he pulled out two loaves. “My last two,” he said, then nodded to the back door. “There’s a couple dozen eggs in the back room. You better get them, too.”
Mary squinted. “Thank you, Marlo. I mean that. Thanks.”
She started walking toward the back-room cooler and Marlo called out to her. “You could take some of those eggs and mix them with warm coffee. Give that to Kelly with her medicine. That’ll help keep it down.”
Mary went into the back room, then returned to the counter with the eggs. “Hey, Marlo,” she said as he rang up her small sack of groceries. “There are a couple guys around here. I haven’t seen them in a while. Young kids. One’s a white boy, but the other one is black. White shirts and ties. You know them?”
The store owner shook his head. “I don’t know. You talking cops?”
“No, no, no. Preachers. Real young preachers.”
“Jehovah Witness. I thought they abandoned this miserable place.”
Mary hesitated. “I don’t think that’s them,” she said. “They’re always together, always the same two young
guys . . .”
“Mormons,” Marlo answered.
Mary thought and then nodded. “Yeah. I think that’s right.”
Marlo glared at her. “You don’t want to be talking to those Mormons. A bunch of racist white boys. You don’t want to be talking to none of them.”
“Really?” Mary answered. She didn’t know what to think. “But one of them was black.”
“Yeah, trust me, Mary, you don’t want to go talking to no Mormons. They’re only trouble, okay? I got a friend down in Hobart. His daughter joined that church. One night they pulled her into their church, beat her up, then threw her out on the street.”
Mary shook her head. Marlo believed lots of things that seemed unlikely, and this sounded like another one of them.
“Swear to you,” Marlo answered, seeing the disbelieving look on Mary’s face. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. They’re all gone anyway. Their prophet, Joe Smith back in Salt Lake, called all their missionaries home. I heard it on the radio a couple days ago. Right after the attack back in Gaza, all the Mormon missionaries around the world were called home. Guess they figured it was time to shine their guns, protect their stored-up food, and go hunting for some wives.”
Mary shook her head. She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. “They are gone?” she pressed with disappointment. “Are you certain they’re not here anymore?”
“Sure of it. I see everyone who walks into this neighborhood, and I’m telling you they haven’t been here since ol’ Israel dropped the big one on the Palestinians over there.”
“And there’s no Mormons around here but those missionaries, no church or anything?”
“Not in this place.”
Mary nodded sadly, bitter disappointment seeping deep into her soul. You told me to find them! she thought sullenly. But how can I find them if they’re not here anymore!
* * *
Mary waited in the lobby for the elevator, grocery sack in hand. Minutes passed. The elevator never descended—apparently it was broken again—so she headed up the stairs, grateful she lived only five flights up.
Letting herself into her apartment, she kicked her leather shoes behind the door and headed for the kitchen. Azadeh was sitting at the small table, the newspaper spread out, reading the front page. A large picture of blackened D.C. took up most of the space above the fold. Mary glanced at it. “Anything new?” she asked.
“I don’t understand most of it,” Azadeh answered. “I read to help me with my English.”
“That’s good,” Mary said as she placed the small sack of groceries on the narrow counter next to the refrigerator. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Have you looked in on Kelly?”
“She is asleep,” Azadeh answered. She hesitated, then added, “She seemed cold. I put another blanket on her and sat with her for a time. I did not try to wake her, but I just wanted . . . you know . . . I just thought she might like someone there, even if she was asleep. I hope that was okay. I sat by her on the mattress and sang a little song.”
Mary turned to face her. “That’s sweet, baby. You are kind. And you’re right, I sometimes think she’s asleep but then I’m surprised to find out that she was awake and hearing everything that I said.”
Azadeh pressed her lips together, thinking of Miss Pari. “My father used to sing me a song when I was young,” she said. “It is a beautiful song, a little sad, but in a nice sort of way.” She started singing in Farsi, the words gentle and slow.
Mary closed her eyes as she listened. “That is beautiful,” she said when Azadeh was finished.
Azadeh looked away, embarrassed.
“Will you teach me the words? Will you translate them into English?”
“My father tried to make a translation once,” Azadeh answered. “I’m not sure I can remember it exactly.”
“Try. Please. Do the best that you can.”
Azadeh thought a long moment, then started singing.
The world that I give you
Is not always sunny and bright.
But knowing I love you
Will help make it right.
So when the dark settles,
And the storms fill the night,
Remember I’ll be waiting
When it comes,
Morning Light.
Mary smiled. “So beautiful. I love that!”
Azadeh let her eyes fall to the floor. Mary watched her closely. The young woman was dressed in a black skirt that rested on her knees and a red blouse with a matching tie
around her waist. Her thick black hair fell past her shoulders and was tied with a ribbon at the back. Her skin was a perfect bronze, her eyes large and bright. She didn’t have on any makeup, but she didn’t need any and never would. Staring at her, Mary realized she was as naturally beautiful as anyone she had ever seen before.
“Gosh, it’s so good to have you here!” she exclaimed.
Azadeh smiled shyly.
Mary stared at her a moment longer. “You don’t have any idea how beautiful you are, do you, Azadeh?” She sat down at the small kitchen table as she spoke.
Azadeh lowered her eyes but didn’t answer.
Mary leaned toward her. “You really don’t understand, do you?”
The look on Azadeh’s face assured Mary that she didn’t. Mary thought for a long moment. It was going to be hard. And it almost seemed wrong. But she had to tell her. She had to warn her. She had to strip away some of her innocence if she was going to survive in this place. She had to lay it out to prepare her to live in this new world. It was a wonder, an absolute modern-day miracle, that someone as old as Azadeh could be so innocent. It was . . . she didn’t know how to describe it . . . renewing and beautiful. Many of the children around her had little babies of their own, yet Azadeh seemed to be completely innocent of such things. “Azadeh,” she started, “you are a beautiful young lady. I know that all this is new, but you’re going to have to be careful.”
Azadeh looked at her. “Careful,” she echoed.
“Careful, baby. There are people around here, people in this city, in this neighborhood, in this building even, who will hurt you or take advantage of you in very bad ways. Some of them will try to fool you. They’ll pretend to be your friend. They’ll act one way one day, then turn on you, baby. Do you understand anything I’m saying?”
Azadeh met Mary’s eyes. She remembered the Iraqi who had come to fetch her from the camp, the man who claimed to be an agent for the uncle she didn’t have. She remembered the way he had looked at her, the way he had summed her up with his eyes. She remembered other men, some old, some young, who looked at her the same way. So yes, she understood. She understood much more than Mary thought.
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