Screaming Eagles

by Michael Lawrence Kahn

  I held her hand as she continued.

  “I remember waking up the next morning after the sleeping pills had worn off and walking past my dressing table mirror. I knew for certain that I could not be the person reflected there. I looked at my eyes in the mirror. Insane vacant eyes, drugged and lifeless, stared back. They weren’t my eyes, couldn’t have been. They were a crazy, demented person’s eyes, silently flashing screams of agony. I saw a face bulging and puffy with slack skin blotched and discolored, distorted by deep lines I had never seen on my face before. There was a terrible ugliness about that tortured face. I knew that ugly person could not really be me as we stared at each other.

  “For a long time—I don’t know how long—I just stood, seeing color reflections changing in my irises and pupils as I watched tears forming. The tears swelled, my eyelashes held them prisoner for a split second. Then, bursting free, they became torrents, pouring and dribbling down each side of my nose. I could actually see thin lines of clear water cascading down my cheeks, eventually falling in large uneven drops off my chin.

  “Most of that first day after I buried the urns containing the ashes of my family was spent in front of that mirror, looking at how ugly I was becoming and realizing how hopeless my future without my family would be.

  “Days became the same as nights. I kept my curtains closed, didn’t want to see the sun shine. The light of my life was no more. My future without them would forever be darkness. Hours didn’t matter anymore. I’d turn off the lights in my bedroom, light a candle ,and turn on the radio not hearing it, and hear the candle instead. The candle burning was my music. The flame with its continuing bursts of energy moving in different directions had a sensuousness and fragile beauty. Its movements were a fifty-piece orchestra playing music only I could hear. The flame was alive. It was continuous, yet its shape continuously changed.

  Lexi took a deep, ragged breath. “I could watch the candle for hours on end. It had a timelessness like Frank Sinatra singing, ‘I did it my way’ the night we got married and danced together for the first time as husband and wife for all the world to see. The flame symbolized life, and of the four of us, I was the only one left to see it in my desperate silence. I was so alone, so very much alone. They betrayed and cheated me by dying and not letting me die with them. The sky above me was always angry.

  “For the next two years, I had therapy twice a week, trying to cope with my fears and live with my losses. There is a narrow moment when your mind blinks and a spark of healing begins. That is when you know that dignity has its own soul.

  “One day, years later, I felt that I had exited a building just before it exploded, and when I looked back, I saw the wreckage that was my life. At that moment, I knew I had to move on and that my life still lay ahead, not behind me.

  “The pain, Jay, is still there, dull, but there. Their birthdays are especially difficult days for me, for I try to imagine what they would look like if they were now alive. I would walk past shops and think what clothes they would wear and what my birthday gifts to them would be. I even planned to have an artist look at their photographs and on each anniversary of their birthdays, age them by a year, paint in the lines, gently make them mature and grow older in front of me. The updating of the pictures would let me experience the pleasure of seeing my children grow up, and see my husband’s hair each year going a little more gray.

  She leaned over and took a sip of water from the glass on her nightstand, pausing to gather her thoughts.

  “The driver of the other car walked away without a scratch until the police noticed how unsteady his walk was. They found his blood alcohol count was five times higher than it should have been. He was 44 years old and had been arrested eleven times for drunk driving. He was uninsured, unemployed, and driving without a license. That man was sentenced to 15 years in jail, but because of prison overcrowding, served only two years and two months. I however, was sentenced to life without a family.

  “That bastard stole everything from me. He stole away my three best friends, their futures as well as mine. He made my bed a place of memories, and my children’s rooms’ silent tombs of promises and a potential that could never be fulfilled. Death was not supposed to part us until I was very old. Nothing had prepared me how to bury a husband and children. I was not taught this at school or college. I had never read a book or been instructed on how one buries ashes that were your family a day ago under twelve inches of earth.

  “I was a survivor who did not want to survive.

  “Ghosts whispered in my sleep tonight. I pleaded for mercy, begged for silence, but the whispers continued to shriek and scream their torture and torment. Even through sleep, I saw his face—saw the mocking, disinterested way he looked at me in the courtroom, saw him smile and wink, and then blow a kiss in my direction as he was escorted out of the courtroom.

  “For the first few years, I saw him nightly in my nightmares. The nightmare always ended with him laughing as he smashed into our car. As soon as I saw the twitch of a smile starting in the corner of his mouth, I knew that my family only had seconds to live.

  “In my dreams, I always tried to divert them from the lane in which they were driving. I shouted, I screamed, I yelled warnings, I tried anything; but they never heard my desperate screams or me. In panic, I watched his smile become a laugh and I knew they were dead.

  “I wanted revenge. I wanted to hill him so badly. I bargained with God, promising him anything if he would only show me how to kill him. But God was busy in some other room, dispensing and directing pain on other people like me and his door must have been tightly closed because he never heard me, never even acknowledged me. All my life I had been a good daughter; when I married, I was a good wife. Then when my children were born, I was a good mother. Was the agony, the hell I was experiencing reserved only for ‘good people’? If so, I didn’t want to be a ‘good people.’ I wrestled with the hypocrisy of my faith and slowly drifted away from it. I did not deserve my punishment, so I punished God. I deserted him. I stopped praying and left His house that I had visited nearly every Sunday of my life.

  Lexi’s fingers tightened around mine. “Tonight was the first time in years that I had the nightmare again. I saw that drunkard start to laugh and I knew the car was going to crash. This time, it was not my husband driving…it was you.”

  She began crying again and reached for me. “Jay, you scare me, but I don’t want to lose you.”

  * * *

  As much as I wanted to, I hadn’t told her about my past life or the panic attacks. There were voices in my brain only I could hear that drained my soul, and left it lost and fearful. I trust her, but am not sure if I can trust her to stay once I expose and lay open my imperfections.

  My ex-wife had thrown me out of our home and demanded a divorce when I lost all my money in Iran. She’d called me a loser and a man who would always fail because he was so utterly stupid. She warned our children to distance themselves from being contaminated by my stupidity. Silently, my daughters had moved away from me to stand next to their mother, clinging to her as she held them close.

  I hadn’t seen or spoken to my daughters in years, preferring not to interfere in their lives. I continue to punish myself for letting them down and ache at the emptiness of my life. Every time they contacted me, I sent their letters back unopened. Eventually they stopped writing.

  These are the scars of my heart and the darkness that make me fear Lexi’s love, a love that would be replaced by rejection.

  She has tried on numerous occasions to get me to talk to her. Defensively, I’d change the subject. When she continues and is persistent, I become defiant and withdrawn. I know she is hurt when I keep her at arm’s length about my past, but dark, torturous feelings hold me back. I feel as though I am living someone else’s life.

  The panic attack at the hotel some weeks ago unnerved me, and though I have not had nightmares since, I wait to weep when a nightmare follows me into my sleep. I don’t want her near me when that
happens.

  “Let’s keep it light,” I say.

  We call each other a dozen times a day, sharing something we think the other will enjoy. I sleep at her house on weekends, but insist on going home to my own apartment if we make love during the week. Another hurt, but she is patient with me and knows that one day we will talk and bring down the wall between us. I know she is growing impatient with my self-imposed barriers.

  There’s no way in hell I’m going to acknowledge my feelings until I have wrestled this 800-pound gorilla off my back and have the courage to talk—and the strength to lose her if she walks away. Until that time, I am determined to keep a tight lid on my feelings for her. I would rather lose her that way, than expose the locked doors in my heart, and have her be repelled by me. She has conquered her demons. I still have heavy baggage to deal with.

  * * *

  I finish dressing. Silently she watches me as I prepare to leave. I begin to feel uneasy without the usual banter and teasing that has always been there to ease the tension of my leaving her bed. I begin picking up the sheets and blankets off the carpet, preparing to put them on the bed.

  “Leave them.”

  I stare at her.

  “Jay, I have no idea what fucking wall you’ve built around yourself or how high you plan to build it, but I’ve decided to take things one day at a time. No commitment on either of our parts, just sex, lust, and more sex. That’s fine by me. If something more develops, so be it. I’m enjoying our relationship too much to let anything spoil it—for now. If you want to change the rules, let me know. Maybe I’ll agree to it, maybe I won’t.”

  There is an edge in her voice. She is trying to be defiant, but the hurt and anger in her eyes is evident. She gets up from the bed and pulls the robe around herself tighter, her lovely figure enhanced by its smooth silk.

  “I’m going to say this once, and only once. I believe that something bad happened to you at some time or other in your life, I have waited for you to bring me into that hurt, let me stand with you, and heal that scar. Together, we have a chance to walk through a door that has opened just a few inches. We may find that when we go through that door, there is a new day ahead of us. Maybe there is life after death. I have found it with you, but so far, you cannot find it with me. Think about what I have just said, and play it cool like you want to. Let’s not call or see each other for a week or two, then one day, let’s re-examine if we go through the door or not. If we do, it has to be together.”

  “Fine with me,” I say, reprieved and relieved as I kiss her cheek and say good night. She opens the door for me. I touch her cheek, seeing the hurt in her eyes, hesitate, then walk to my car without looking back.

  Driving to my apartment, I feel the uneasy stab of her disappointment once again. I knew that sooner rather than later, our relationship would have to move in one direction or another. She is the most exciting woman I have ever met, but her words a few minutes ago had unmistakably held a veiled threat. She has finally lost patience. I wonder how long I have before she gives up. What will I do? I don’t want to lose her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Locking the car in the parking garage of my apartment, I take the elevator to the ninth floor. Lexi still on my mind, along with the dilemma that is now no longer solved with damage control. Walking along the passage toward the apartment, keys in hand, I see a man with a suitcase standing outside my door, watching me as I approach.

  Fear contracts like a fist in my stomach and chest. Pivoting, I run back to the elevator, ducking as I run. I hear my name being called but continue running. I brace myself as I wait for the hammer sound of a shot, wondering if I will hear it before I die, or die before I hear it.

  “Jay, it is me, Jalal,” shouts the man. In mid-stride, I stop, twisting as I turn, moving back against the wall, ready to run again. I peer carefully straining to focus my eyes. I see the white patch of hair on the man’s forehead.

  It suddenly clicks.

  I recognize Jalal the Kurd. For the second time, Jalal has again come to my apartment and found me.

  Dara’s son has come to Chicago.

  * * *

  Jalal has aged. Deep lines furrow his handsome face. His eyes, sunken shards of frozen fatigue, stare intently at me. The likeness between Jalal and his father Dara is incredible. It is as if Dara, not Jalal, is sitting in front of me once again. Twenty-odd years have disappeared and the young Dara who became my friend has re-emerged.

  “Jalal,” I say, grasping his hand across the table. “I haven’t heard from you now for a couple of years. Do you still live in the village in the mountains near Irbil?”

  “Yes. I now have three children. My wife’s name

  is Shareen.”

  “What’s up? I’ve known you far too long to know that you wouldn’t turn up at 2 o’clock in the morning just to scare the hell out of me.”

  “Jay, let me get right to the point. The President of Iraq, Abdel Amir, arrived here two days ago as a guest of the President of the United States. They are now good friends and are discussing the New World Order. Iraq will become the de facto leader of the Arab nations.

  “It was Amir who sent his Iraqi kamikaze pilots masquerading as Iranians and blew up the jumbo jets. Their speaking Farsi completely fooled the Americans into thinking that they were Iranians. In actual fact, it was the Iraqis who blew up the planes and caused your Congress to go to war with Iran. Amir tricked the Americans into destroying his enemies when they were about to enter Baghdad and capture Iraq. The Americans bombed the wrong people.”

  I frown, shaking my head. “Nonsense, Jalal. That’s crazy talk. No one here or anywhere else I know of will believe you. Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.”

  “Jay, listen to me, please. I am not a child. I am not mad. I have proof. If I show you proof, proof that cannot lie, will you help me?”

  “Jalal, you’re not making sense. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

  Quietly Jalal says, “If my father asked you to listen, would you deny him that? Would you tell him to go to sleep?”

  “You’re trying to blackmail me, you little shit.”

  “If necessary, yes. If I have to blackmail you or do anything to get you to listen, I will do it. I want you to listen, and I want you to listen now, not tomorrow, not the next day, but now. If I cannot convince you, I will leave immediately, not in the morning but right away.”

  I am furious. “I don’t like the way you brought your father into this. I don’t like blackmail.”

  “Jay, when you stood next to me at the gallows as they hanged my father, you stood up for something. You became my guard, making sure those boys would not hurt me. I was only 14 years old, waiting to see the man I loved die in front of my eyes. He was a patriot. He wanted independence for our country. My father was a man who stood up for what he believed was right. He fought a vicious, evil man who tried to kill off all of the Kurds. My father was betrayed by one of his own men, tortured, and yet died an honorable death. He believed in his cause, believed he was right. He died regretting only that he could not fight them anymore. You saw him. He was not afraid on the gallows. Abdel Amir and your President, when they hear what I have to say, will also try to kill me. Will you be my guard just one more time?”

  Trapped, I sigh deeply, scratch my cheek with two fingers, then look into his eyes, “Tell me.”

  Jalal talks. Skeptically, I watch him and hear him describe what really happened.

  I continue to listen hour after hour, hardly interrupting him.

  When Jalal finishes, I am not skeptical or cynical anymore.

  * * *

  “If you want me to help you, I’ll need you to repeat your story one more time to one of my friends. I can’t help you on my own. I’m still amazed that Sadegh is alive and living in Chicago. We’ll get to him later. However, you need to know that I nearly suffered a nervous breakdown and I’m not sure that at a crucial moment, I won’t suffer a panic attack.”

 
; “Who is your friend?”

  “Josh Blatt. He’s a policeman, head of an anti-terrorist squad. Josh is now the assistant to the head of Homeland Security as a special liaison to the government to coordinate the fight against international terrorism. He also might be able to help you. I trust him with my life. Anything you need, I will surely try to help you, but you will have to trust him.”

  “Explain about your nervous breakdown to me first. I would prefer just the two of us handle this situation. “

  “Okay, I hear you, Jalal. But listen to what I’ve got to say first. Want some more coffee?”

  He nods. I pour, then take a deep breath.

  “I’ve not told anyone what I’m about to tell you now, but I think it’s important enough and you’ll see why I need the help of someone else,” I said.

  “About six months after the end of the First Gulf War, I suddenly began having terrible nightmares. I had never experienced nightmares before and became too scared to sleep. I nearly suffered a complete nervous breakdown.

  “One of the strengths of the CIA has always been the finest possible psychiatric therapy, which is made available immediately to families of wounded soldiers or civilians injured in terrorist attacks. It doesn’t matter if the injury is physical, mental, or emotional. The CIA has set up crisis centers in every city for those who need therapy. In the CIA, being in therapy is not considered a stigma or cause for alarm. It is considered one of the realities of living with life-threatening danger every hour of every day, no matter if you are at home, at work, watching a movie, shopping in a supermarket, or riding a bus. “

  I look into my coffee cup, swirl the coffee, then swallow a mouthful of the hot liquid.