A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

Frecklie choked again. Puppy pulled his hands away before he blacked out. Damn DV parents.

  “Why?” Puppy asked.

  The teen hesitated a little longer, then reluctantly ran his finger across his throat and pointed at Puppy.

  He almost asked why again. “I only met her for like four minutes. What could I possibly have done to make her hate me?”

  Frecklie tapped his temple and rolled his eyes about the mysteries of mothers.

  Puppy stretched out his tight legs across the sidewalk, thinking. “You like the job?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Want to keep doing it?”

  He nodded more emphatically.

  “What about your friends?”

  Frecklie tapped his chest and then walked his fingers along the ground. They are with me.

  Puppy eased himself up. “Where’s your Mom work?”

  Frecklie waved his arms in alarm.

  • • • •

  PUPPY WALKED DOWN the two steps and was buzzed into the basement of the red brick building on East 164th Street, centered amid the rows of traditional artisan workshops. Clothes, shoes, hats, socks, underwear, scarves, all handmade.

  Humming sewing machines sang behind a wide oak door at Ruby’s Dresses. An old woman with gray hair squinted up from the folding table, which served as the front desk.

  “Are you picking something up?”

  She gestured at the neatly packed brown packages of clothes wrapped with string, sitting five feet high in the corner next to rolls of cloth covered in transparent plastic.

  “No, ma’am. I’d like to talk to Mrs. Rivera.”

  “About?” The old eyes shaded slightly.

  “Her son.”

  A few moments later, Beth leaned against the back door in the alley, giving him nowhere else to stand except by the black garbage cans, a suggestion that was where he belonged. She rubbed her thin neck slowly.

  “What did you do to Ruben?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Because I’ll kill you if you hurt him.”

  He held up his hands. “I want to talk about the job.”

  Beth sneered slightly. “There’s nothing to discuss, Mr. Nedick.”

  “Puppy.”

  “Mr. Nedick.” Her hands were dotted with scabs. She blushed and shoved them into her jeans, angry he’d noticed. “My son had the one experience. I thank you. That’ll be enough.”

  “You signed the contract.”

  “A mother can always renege for the protection of her son.”

  “How the hell am I hurting him?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Beth turned to go back inside. Puppy touched her elbow. Beth’s look could’ve melted him down to the bone.

  “He likes the job.”

  “He’s sixteen. He likes many things, not all of them good.”

  “What’s wrong with taking tickets at a baseball game?”

  “It was a robot job.” Her brown eyes darkened. “There could be trouble.”

  “No, it’s all worked out. Third Cousin approval.”

  “Oh, a Third Cousin approved?” she said sarcastically. “That makes everything okay.”

  “Just this.” He tapped his heart and waved his hands outward. I was a DV, too. That agitated Beth even more.

  “Means nothing,” her voice was low.

  “Meant enough that I hired him. And more DVs.”

  The woman paused a moment and he pressed on.

  “I don’t even know if Frecklie will work out.”

  That got Beth defensive. “Why not?”

  “I said I’d give him ten games as a trial. There’s more than just taking tickets. It could be a bigger job. We’ll see.”

  “You’re saying my son can’t do a job at a baseball place? Where no one goes?”

  “We had our biggest crowd yesterday,” he shot back, touting the first double-digit attendance in a year.

  Beth’s nostrils flared suspiciously. “You hired him because he was a poor little DV?”

  “No. Because I was desperate. Robots quit. I needed people. Who the hell wants to work at a baseball place?”

  His honesty held her a moment. Beth’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t take advantage of him.”

  “He’s already acting like he’s the boss.”

  She fought away the creeping smile. “Five games. Then I’ll decide.”

  “Ten games. Then we’ll decide together.”

  She glared. “Five. Or get yourself a ‘bot.”

  He searched for some heroic stance; there was none. He nodded. “What’s with this attitude?”

  Rivera sneered as if he were a moron for not deciphering her contempt. She went inside and locked the door. Damn, she was pretty, Puppy grinned.

  • • • •

  STEAM FOGGED THE tiny window, obscuring the rooftops below the six-story building. Pablo tried adjusting the shower, but the pipes had only hot on their mind. The water cascaded in a wide spray, enveloping the glass-enclosed stall.

  He sat back down on the tiny wooden stool, his bony knees up to his chin. In the fifteen minutes since he’d found the note, Shower, attached to the bland front door, he’d only taken off his pants, which he’d folded and used as a cushion to keep them pressed. Obey directions and not look wrinkled. All six feet of Pablo curled up, heels of the black socks skimming his thighs.

  Do it. Just a damn shower. Obviously the thirty-minute one you took this morning, swallowing up the weekly water allotment, didn’t cut it.

  Pablo scanned the ceiling and corners for the cameras, hoping no one noticed, before slipping off his socks and neatly folding them on top of his gray suit pants. He slid off the red tie, jacket and white shirt, tucking the cuff links into the pocket, one in each. He squished down the pile one last time.

  He looked around again but the steam had crawled out of the stall, surrounding him like a tent. This all couldn’t be from the shower, he was convinced. There wasn’t that much hot water in the Bronx. He rubbed his bare feet along the slippery tiles, searching for an underground spring, which made no sense since they were on the top floor of an old building off Moshulu Parkway. If there had been an underground spring, it would’ve scalded the residents on the floor below.

  What residents?

  He placed his boxer shorts on the pile and stepped gingerly into the shower and then right back out, swearing at the heat. No wonder no one talked about becoming a Cousin. Pablo fortified himself and eased inside. Water pelted his face. He grew accustomed to the slight pain and reached for soap or shampoo, but found nothing.

  Okay, he steadied himself. I’ll wash with plain water if that’s what you want. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees several times, discarding songs to sing because he didn’t know how happy he should be.

  He was not happy at all, just puzzled. How long do I stay in? Until the water goes off, he decided grimly. If you want to wither my skin into wrinkled red puffs, then go ahead.

  The door opened and an absolutely beautiful woman with red-hued skin and straight black hair falling to her navel slipped inside as if he’d been expecting her.

  “Good morning, Dr. Diaz.” She kissed his cheek.

  “Morning.”

  “The water’s very hot.” Her black eyes twinkled. “Does that bother you?”

  “I thought it’s supposed to be this hot.”

  “Why?” she asked in genuine curiosity.

  “Because it’s a test.”

  She laughed merrily and he chanced a look at her full breasts and flat, muscled stomach. “To see if you can suffer third degree burns?” The woman adjusted the knob and the temperature decreased slightly from the inside of a volcano. “Better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Her firm arm groped past his shoulder. “No soap?”

  He shrugged sheepishly.

  “You were going to suffer third degree burns and not even get clean for your efforts?”

  “I didn’t know where they kept the soap.”


  She smiled skeptically. “Will you wash my chest?”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “It’d be more fun if you did.”

  “There’s no soap.”

  “Your wet hands will do.”

  He pressed back against the tiled wall. “I prefer to focus on just washing myself, thank you.”

  “You’re so polite.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman grinned. “I guess there’s no shampoo, either?”

  “Probably in some cabinet,” he answered.

  “Which you didn’t ask about.”

  “Ask who?”

  “There’s always someone to ask, Dr. Diaz.”

  “So I screwed that up?”

  “You mean by not washing your hair?”

  He bristled. “I washed it already. Twice. Probably dried out the scalp for a month along with wilting in this steam.”

  She glanced down. “Not entirely wilted.”

  Pablo covered his erection. “Sorry.”

  “I’m flattered.” The woman raised her face to the spray. “Should we have sex?”

  Pablo tensed, quickly juggling a variety of answers which all included a direct quote or partial quote from one of Grandma’s Insights about random promiscuity, though nothing about showers with naked gorgeous women came to mind. “Probably not.”

  “That’s fairly non-committal.”

  “Under the circumstances.”

  “Which are?”

  “My first meeting. Not you. Here. This interview.”

  “With who? I’m the only one here.”

  “Test.” He said, frustrated she didn’t get it. “This is part of the test.”

  “Everything is part of a test, Dr. Diaz. Pass one and on to the next.”

  “Did I pass this?”

  She frowned. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. “Getting a hard-on. Losing it.” His hands fell away. “Showering for ten minutes with a beautiful naked woman without using soap. And you’re probably not even real.”

  “Do you think I’m real?”

  His jaw jutted out. “Does it goddamn matter?”

  She turned off the water. “Does losing your temper?”

  Pablo sighed. “Yes.”

  “Which you think was wrong.” The woman opened the glass door. “Do you think it was wrong, Dr. Diaz?” She bent over and handed him a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo left outside.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “What do I do now?”

  “What do you think you should do, Dr. Diaz? I have plans. Not everyone can spend all day washing their hair.”

  The woman slipped into a purple bathrobe, leaving his robe hanging on a hook. He slowly dressed. His black socks were wet.

  Pablo hurried out of the silent building and actually walked two blocks toward the subway before admitting that he didn’t want to rush back to work. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he was hungry and his skin tingled as if he was a second course at a barbecue, and he was perplexed. Besides, he didn’t want to imagine the woman’s breasts dancing among molars.

  Usually when he was this bewildered, he would hide. Not physically, but crawl into the Pablo part of himself that disconnected into a calm parallel universe, which he’d first discovered, powered by that most universal of inter-galactic emotional fuel, misery. Parents forever arguing because they had to blame someone for their failures and it would get out if they were heard blaming their children. His only sister was dead. During a school trip to the nation’s capital, she’d been incinerated in the dirty nuke bomb that took out DC. She was eight years old.

  His father and mother stopped arguing after that, though when Pablo was accepted to Bronx University with a pre-dental major, a pretty damn impressive leap from the DV with both undergraduate and graduate school guaranteed, his dear old Dad had insisted the only reason Pablo made it was because his sister’s name was on the wall of victims at the black-marbled memorial at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Otherwise you’d be shit like me, his dear old Dad had said, the same dear old Dad who burnt down his own bakery a few months later.

  Pablo, deep in thought by a traffic light, aimlessly turned down a clammy street scabbed with old buildings and into Needleman’s Coffee Shop. Proudly Serving Since 2036.

  Three greasy men with spines bowed by irritation picked at the remains of breakfast at a front table. Scuffed, grimy tiles continued up the walls, giving the long, rectangular restaurant a cylindrical, tunnel-like feeling.

  Pablo sat in a booth across from the empty counter at the rear. Two glass cases held piles of pastries and cakes. A blackboard told everyone that today’s special was split pea soup. Yum-delicious.

  An old guy with a tuft of hair like a solitary wing handed Pablo a menu.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked gruffly.

  “I haven’t looked yet, sir.”

  “Then look already,” the waiter said peevishly, retreating behind the counter. He folded his arms impatiently.

  Pablo sniffed at the discolored fork and wiped it clean with his handkerchief. “Coffee and a cup of the split pea soup.”

  “That it?” The waiter was stunned. “We got fine Reuben sandwiches. Fries that’ll make you piss down both legs. And you only want the goddamn soup?”

  Pablo tried placing the waiter’s accent a moment, and smiled. “Bring me the soup, then the sandwich and fries.”

  “It’s on marble rye. But save room for dessert. Black-and-white cookies come in fresh daily.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  The waiter shuffled off, pleased. European, Pablo finally placed the phrasing. Probably one of the Last Exodus, the few Jews who had made it out of ME, where they’d been slaughtered on the spot, and the final bits of CE territory, where they returned to ghettos and suffered blame for the war; Israel was the first victim of the Islamic Empire.

  Pablo munched on the best pickle he ever had as the waiter beamed and refilled his cup.

  “I’ve never been here,” Pablo said, curious about the way the waiter’s shoulders raised up slightly to the left as he laid the soup down.

  “Now you are.” The waiter was offended “Eat.” A bell rang and an A18 in a tall cook’s hat dropped the sandwich onto the counter, making the fries dance. The waiter scowled and the A18 ducked back by his stove. The waiter trudged over apologetically.

  “Goddamn robots. I say, two courses. Soup, then sandwich. Not soup-sandwich. You want me to keep it warm.”

  “No, looks good.” Pablo took a bite and his eyes lolled dreamily.

  The waiter brightened, proudly pointing around the restaurant. “Since 2036. Ten years of making people happy.”

  Pablo didn’t correct the man’s mistake. He was quite old; the Alzheimer’s cure didn’t work on everyone. And Pablo was enjoying disappearing into the Reuben sandwich.

  “What kind of meat is this, sir?”

  “Corned beef. What else do you make a Reuben out of?” the waiter barked, muttering about the ignorance of the young.

  Pablo placed his thin spiral notebook on the table, munching on another sour tomato which was becoming addictive. Disappearing into himself meant finding order to face chaos. He understood it was always temporary, but structure reassured him.

  What happened? He wrote across the top of the page.

  Testing resolve.

  Testing ethics.

  Testing reactions.

  What else? He added below.

  Sex drive. He quickly crossed that out, then scribbled it back in. Cousins should have children, he thought.

  What about the soap and shampoo? How does he handle irritation? Water too hot? A metaphor? What if the water was just too damn hot? An old building, seemingly abandoned.

  Cousins face problems of all kinds, he circled this phrase, pleased; he rewarded himself with another sour tomato, prompting the waiter to happily refill the bowl and remind Pablo about dessert.

  How did you do,
Pablo? He wrote this out carefully as if inscribing a holy tablet.

  Lost temper.

  Bickered with girl.

  Never asked her name.

  Got hard-on.

  Looked stupid looking for cameras and source of steam.

  Looked like fool sitting in socks.

  Had no answers for anything.

  Pablo leaned back wearily and bit into the cookie, half chocolate, half vanilla icing. One of the best things ever. If this cookie had been in the shower, his entire mood would’ve been different.

  He grinned and wrote, How to act like someone eating a black-and-white cookie when you’re not?

  • • • •

  AZHAR RAMMED THE car backwards into the crowded garage, flattening Omar’s bicycle. Clary bolted up as if electrocuted, hands out like talons, teeth bared.

  “It’s okay.” He closed the garage door, not moving until they were concealed in darkness. “It’s Azhar.” Clary’s lower lips trembled in relief. Mustafa wrapped the blanket around the girl’s shivering body and carried her through the kitchen and up the steps.

  Jalak stared, stunned, the vacuum still hoovering away on the landing.

  “Get the first aid,” he shouted, laying Clary gently on their bed. It took a few seconds to persuade her to let go of the blanket. He brushed at her hair, but she snapped her jaws. “I would never hurt you. Let go, little one.”

  Her eyes brimmed warily: the beard, the nose, the scent of a man like the scent of all those men. But this was the nice one. He had fed her. He had sung her songs. He had smiled; not just afterwards.

  Clary’s bleeding fingers fell away. Azhar opened the blanket.

  “What is this?” Jalak hovered, almost as terrified as Clary.

  Mustafa grabbed the first aid kit and clumsily poured rubbing alcohol on a bandage, spilling much of it.

  “Who is she?” Jalak demanded.

  “Just help me, woman.”

  Jalak and Clary exchanged suspicious stares. Jalak grumbled and tugged off the remains of Clary’s ripped clothes, wiping away the blood and applying antibiotic ointment. The little girl watched carefully as Jalak finished bandaging her torso and cleaning the scrapes on her thighs, cheeks and forehead.

  “Give her some aspirin,” Mustafa ordered.

  “Is she in pain?”

  “What do you think? Look at her.”

  Jalak didn’t move, wishing away Clary from her home. Azhar angrily fetched the pills from the medicine cabinet, cradling Clary’s neck as she sipped the water.