A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Puppy in his Bronx College uniform flashed onto the screen, throwing a pitch.

  “…a former ballplayer himself, petitioned Third Cousin Kenuda, our Sport Commissioner, with an idea to highlight the game so no one would ever forget. Ready for this? Use real players.”

  Quick shots of lumbering, fat players over the years accompanied by HGs flashed across the screen.

  Kenuda stood in front of his desk, twirling a football. “Mr. Nedick asked if we would allow humans instead of HGs to finish up. We thought it would be amusing. That is mockery turned inside out.”

  A few clips flashed of Vernon crawling towards home plate and Neal getting hit in the head with a throw.

  Prick. You snuck in and filmed the game.

  Hazel returned. “So if you want a good laugh and have an hour to kill with nothing better to do, check out this historical monstrosity from a time of hatred and false pride in being an American.”

  The sportscaster stepped aside for the iconic shot of part of the Amazon Stadium scoreboard collapsing on 10/12, which silenced the bar.

  Jimmy plugged the music back in and the dancing slowly resumed, the report lingering in the air. The bartender gave Puppy a searching look filled with disappointment.

  “You really making fun of baseball?”

  “No, just the opposite,” Puppy tried explaining, but Jimmy walked away. A few patrons passed with curious stares, not quite knowing what to make of Puppy, but leaning toward disdain.

  He slammed the nuts bowl onto their table. Cobb looked up, fuming.

  “How come they didn’t interview us? We’re the stars.”

  “You know what, fuck you, too.”

  Puppy stormed out of the bar and back home. Mooshie was in the bathroom, singing. That lightened him up quickly. Mooshie Lopez, urinating on the same toilet. He sat on the couch, propping the computer on his lap, and started his report.

  “Game Three. April 25, 2098. This was historic and astonishing. For the first time in thirty-three years, men and women ran the bases of Amazon Stadium. They hit the ball. They threw. They pitched. They caught. They slid. Not an HG in sight.”

  Okay, he murmured, a little too celebratory, especially since the Little Extended Family is coming down on them for anti-robot bias.

  “…They caught. They slid. They demonstrated some of the finest excitement of HG-inspired baseball.”

  “And where the hell did the HGs get their shit from?” Mooshie rested her chin on her hands, looking over his shoulder. The white towel covered her head.

  “I have to be polite.”

  “Lucky we didn’t turn them all into can openers after the shit they pulled. Posing as humans. Made in whose image?” Her full lips curled. “Enough of that. What do you think of me?”

  Mooshie grandly tugged off the towel. Gone were the thick, luscious black curls. Now chopped blonde hair hugged her scalp just above the small ears.

  “You don’t look like yourself,” he stammered.

  “Not a bad thing since I’m dead.”

  “But you looked good.”

  Her long grin made him blush. “Would you tell me if I didn’t?”

  “Sure.” He knotted his forefinger and index finger toward his eyes, DV for always true.

  She patted her heart. “Bet you had the picture.”

  His blush deepened toward crimson.

  “Come on, gorgeous.” Mooshie pouted huskily, draping her legs, bare to the knees, across his ankles. He nearly fainted. “Admit it.”

  The Picture. Mooshie diving head-first into home, her powerful ass muscles reared up as if about to launch a missile strike into Allah Land. For most adolescent boys and girls in America, it was the original entry point into sexual fantasies. Estimates were about ninety-five percent of siblings under eighteen had that picture of Mooshie’s sacred naked ass, sans Yankees uniform. Maybe fifty percent over eighteen. For a while, rumors smoked that every third potential divorce mentioned the photo. A few captured Allahs had her rear in their backpacks. Few? Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Don’t kneel to Mecca, but toward Mooshie’s butt crack. Send Mooshie’s ass to the Grand Mufti and end the war, was a favorite bar slogan.

  No one ever knew if it was a doctored photo or if Mooshie had snuck into the stadium and had a picture taken of her patented head-first slide with her uniform bottom around her knees.

  “Yes, you did.” She tickled his chin.

  “I didn’t,” he shouted as if fourteen. “I considered that sacrilege. Zelda had one.”

  Mooshie raised an eyebrow. “Did she show it to you?”

  “I wouldn’t look. Pablo did.”

  “But not innocent little Puppy?”

  “No,” he said adamantly, cheeks burning. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

  “A ball.” She dumped crackers onto the coffee table. “How’d the old coots do?’

  “Good.”

  She tilted her head doubtfully and knotted her fingers by her eyes. Puppy described the worst-played baseball game in human history. At least no one got seriously hurt.

  She sipped a beer. “What’re you going to do?”

  “More practice. Lots more practice.”

  “What if it doesn’t work? Your best players are about two hundred years old.”

  He hesitated. “Not all of them.”

  Off his long, pleading stare, Mooshie sighed deeply. “I can’t, hon.”

  “Just play every few games. We need a pitcher.”

  She moved into a chair. “Look at me. Even with this disgusting hair style, put me in a baseball uniform and I’m recognized.”

  “That would cause some questions,” he conceded.

  “Especially since they killed me, handsome.”

  His mouth dropped. “I thought you…”

  “Killed myself? Toppled over drunk? Nope. Figure as long as I’m back, I’ll find out who. But it was probably Grandma.”

  “Grandma wouldn’t do that.”

  Mooshie squeezed his wrist a little too hard. “A believer. Touching. I was a nuisance. Much better to discredit me and the Miners. No, kid. I don’t even want to see what Yankee, sorry, Amazon Stadium looks like. I pitched my last game that day. Dodging the bullets. The bodies. The screams.” Mooshie leaned forward, elbows on knees, seeming smaller in memory. She returned with a distant smile. “What other crap do you have to write tonight?”

  “The kind that smells good.”

  “My specialty.” Mooshie deleted “astonishing” from his report, then erased the entire paragraph. “How many errors today?”

  He glanced at his notes. “Twelve.”

  “Not bad for both teams.”

  “That’s just the Falcons.”

  She rolled her eyes and nudged him aside. Mooshie Lopez was writing his game report. He couldn’t believe it. He watched her beautifully molded face with those high cheekbones and thin lips work thoughtfully, laughing to herself, mouthing the words, frowning with mental edits as she two-fingered on the keyboard. At midnight, he cooked up a platter of Edison’s Crumpled Crackers.

  Mooshie handed back the laptop.

  “Game Three. April 25, 2098. We had real people today. Not greats like Mooshie Lopez, the best player in history, but solid local talent who tried their best to play the game like it hasn’t been played in a long time. They did their best. One of the better ones was Vernon Jackson the catcher who had two hits. The oldest guys…”

  Mooshie, he murmured scoldingly. She shrugged, grinning.

  “…were Ty Cobb and Mickey Mantle whose ancestors once played well and whose talents maybe they haven’t entirely inherited. Mantle never hit the ball and Cobb got only one hit. He also pitched which he did okay considering the Falcons couldn’t hit the side of Grandma’s ass with a building…”

  Mooshie! He shook his head, laughing.

  “…but the game was sloppy overall and one-sided, not perfect like HGs. That’s what you get with humans. Maybe they’ll get better.”

  He cleared his throat.
“I’ll make a few edits.”

  “Leave it,” Mooshie said sternly. “I don’t do tweaks.”

  “Referring to Grandma’s butt…”

  “You think she’ll read this?”

  “Someone might.”

  In all the fifteen years, no one had ever responded to any of his entries. More than two thousand and not even a complaint about a comma.

  As he shut down the laptop, Mooshie yawned and kissed him on top of the head.

  “Mooshie likes to sleep late so make sure the Two White Grampas don’t wake me up with their belching and farting.”

  Shit. The two Grampas. Where were they?

  “Nighty-poo, little boo.” Mooshie shuffled down the hallway with a tiny wave.

  “Please lock the door if you go out again,” said Puppy.

  She peered back around the corner, eyes narrow. “You spying on me?”

  “You don’t have a Lifecard, Ms. Lopez.”

  Mooshie’s expression eased. “Good point. But don’t spy on me. Ever.”

  Puppy put on his socks and went back to Monroe’s.

  17

  Second Cousins Patel and Cruz peeled off outside the conference room with dismayed looks; Cheng nodded reassuringly and caught up with Grandma as she returned to her living quarters. He waved off an offer of fresh coffee and stood silently by her desk.

  Grandma glanced up as if surprised to still see him there. “I upset Fran and Carlos, didn’t I?”

  “You were rather distant.”

  “I was very heartened by the West Coast clean-up but I still want settlements, at least around San Diego, by the end of the year.”

  “As soon as it’s safe.”

  “No, Albert. As soon as the scientists find the means, which has lagged greatly. I want the radiation levels down to zero by the end of the year. And I want Americans living in Southern California by early next year.” She waved off his protests. “Minimal American populations is an open window for the Chinese to meddle and I won’t have it.”

  “They probably funded the damn terrorists.”

  Grandma glared. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

  “Makes perfect sense. The great world power gone…”

  “And they lose the buffer against the Caliphate. Next year in San Diego. The year after in LA.”

  “We can celebrate the 22nd Century there.” He tipped his shoulders forward slightly and she reddened.

  “Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for those wonderful physicians. Children living outside the womb at three months.”

  “I know. I put that on your calendar since health is one of my areas. Along with education.”

  She shot him a sour look and made coffee by the walnut side table, lingering over each scoop. “What’s the progress of importing real coffee?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “There are reports of black market caffeine. The neutrals down there in Brazil will work with us. I want that done. The Family should have real coffee in the morning. That’s a true family breakfast. If only we could manage bacon.”

  “I’ll handle creating pigs along with undoing the effects of the Allah nuclear terrorist attack on Los Angeles.”

  Grandma dropped a coffee cup and stared with heavy eyes, probing. He let her in just slightly, the years giving him new insights into protecting his thoughts. Or, he sometimes wondered, were her powers waning? Along with her judgment.

  “I won’t be deterred.”

  “You can’t release those curriculum guidelines, Lenora.”

  “Can’t as in shouldn’t? Or can’t as in I won’t be allowed?”

  Cheng stiffened. “Ultimately, it is your decision.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But we need to discuss this further.”

  “Everything’s quiet. Have there been any flare-ups?”

  “There are occasional Kill Allahs signs…”

  “By whom? Children.”

  “Children are taught,” he said coldly.

  “Yes, they are. And we’re not living in our bubble forever, Albert.”

  He swallowed slowly. “Meaning?”

  “I want to teach everything that happened. Whether we fare well or not.”

  “There is only Allah treachery.”

  “Please don’t insult me, Albert. We wrote the history to satisfy our losses.” She waved her arm. “And don’t lecture about LA and Washington and Manhattan. We need to understand why it happened. We can’t wallow in resentment and hatred.”

  “So you want to re-write the truth?”

  “Truth, my darling, is perhaps the most subjective fact of all. I think we’ve reached a stage where we can discuss the events leading up to the Allah War.”

  “Such as?”

  She flushed at his quiet insolence. “Like the deportations. Did we over-react? Did we banish loyal Americans?”

  “Who believed in sharia, world conquest, hiding behind terror cells in mosques.”

  “They could just as easily have abandoned that religious nonsense like the Christians and Jews.”

  “There were no nuns or rabbis strapping bombs around their waists, blowing up school buses in our cities.”

  “I’m not defending that.” His silence infuriated her. “They were largely disloyal, no protests against the terrorists, little support for America. I lived that, too, Albert. But perhaps we should’ve let the Muslims who wanted to follow their religion do so, as we allowed the others. Quietly, until they came to their senses about God and miracles instead of rounding them all up and out the door. You can do the right thing and still get some of it wrong.” She pursed her lips stubbornly, the traditional sign that debate was over. “I’m going through with this, Albert.”

  “Changing the educational curriculums still requires passage by First Cousins.”

  Grandma smiled wintrily. “Not if it’s a Grandma Story.”

  Cheng barely kept his anger checked. “That is very unwise, Lenora. Everyone will hear it.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “Including the damn Allahs.”

  Grandma put on her reading glasses. “Your disapproval has been noted, First Cousin. Now if you’ll please excuse me.”

  He didn’t move. “I want to see the script beforehand.”

  “Of course, Albert,” she said without looking up. “You are my loyal First Cousin, after all.”

  Her gloating sarcasm followed him down the hall. Not this time, Grandma.

  • • • •

  FRECKLIE SQUATTED BY the entrance to the DV community center, eyes lowered in embarrassment. Puppy stood over him for a moment, slowly unfolding the tiny white square of paper that Frecklie had stuck inside his door frame.

  Only families were allowed to communicate beyond these casual notes and regular mail, easily the finest postal system in the world with four deliveries a day, and that, only in an emergency.

  All siblings registered key members of their families for interconnect between the vid news, specially coded for your residence only. Emergency meant emergency. No “how was school” or “what’s for dinner.” It had to be something like “leg mangled, in Lebanon Hospital.” Implicit in any family communication was the question of why? If you were in a family, you’d know what was happening, you’d see them, share, spend time together. No mysteries, no sudden, “what do you mean Uncle Matsori’s socks store is closing?” You’d have suffered with Uncle Matsori, listened to his complaints, problems, helped him sort it all out over endless piles of Darnell’s Cream Donuts. That’s what a family does. Anyone who needed to message more than “fell down elevator shaft” wasn’t doing their job.

  Friends, well, there was no communication that constituted an emergency with friends. Someone’s gone missing. They have no family, poor bastard, something had to be done, even grudgingly. If you wanted to talk, you had to go through the Main News Link, using the password and code of the friend to demonstrate you really knew them, which wou
ld be projected on the continuous crawl of the vidnews in one of the four corners, representing geographic points of the country. The last four digits of your Lifecard would sync up with the last four digits of the supposed missing person. The searcher would flash in orange, the searchee in red, pulsing on the screen for five hours.

  “Gordon. Are you okay? Juan.”

  Puppy had never used this feature. He didn’t know anyone who ever had. Friendship was somewhat suspicious in Grandma’s House. If it was a prelude to forming a partnership and raising children, then official engagements was the way. But people who remained friends for too long suggested they really didn’t want familial relationships. They were taking the easy way out, abdicating their duties as members of a Family. There were no honorary “aunts” and “uncles.” Godparents had been banned for more than thirty years as undermining the family structure since too many of these unofficial relatives were just that, good friends. Where was the incentive to connect? Friendship wasted emotions. Friends couldn’t really love; pointless, circuitous relationships delaying the necessary.

  They’d all believed in friends equaling brothers and sisters, once. Those flaming war posters of broad-shouldered men and women clutching rifles beneath the slogan Defend The Family, a hook-nosed bearded Allah feasting on the naked flesh of a child. But they weren’t really brothers and sisters, or even cousins. They’d just washed ashore off the beaches of Morocco, Spain, Britain, Italy. Bloated swollen bodies unrecognizable except for the stench of defeat. With the shame came the stigma. Maybe real brothers and sisters would’ve fought harder.

  They’d actually learned something from the Allahs and their seemingly infinite tribes. Only blood mattered. Under Grandma, America became the bloodstream. All of them, the red and white blood cells. Family, real family. Everyone was a mother and a father. Breed like rabbits and, if you couldn’t, adopt the ME orphans.

  Can’t, Frecklie had written.

  “Why?’

  Frecklie’s embarrassment deepened. Puppy lifted his chin.

  “Why?” he repeated.

  The kid hesitated, then choked his throat with both hands.

  “Your Mom?”