A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Jackson jerked his head toward the fleeing rat. “That’s what was lurking. Tick-tock.”

  Puppy frowned. “You believe that?”

  “Don’t you?” Vern asked warily.

  “It’s hard to believe something so beautiful could represent something so wrong.”

  “Sometimes that’s the easiest way for wrong to get inside your shirt.” The catcher kicked the ground nervously. “What pitches you got?”

  “Fastball, curve, changeup.”

  “Sinker, splitter?”

  “Fastball naturally tails away from righties, into lefties,” Puppy said proudly.

  “Let’s do it, historian, ‘cause the less time I spend with these ghosts the happier I’ll be.”

  Puppy threw up on Vern’s shoes.

  • • • •

  BOAR FACE SMILED so broadly she could’ve swallowed a squirrel.

  “Mr. Saul is very happy.” She leaned against the glass wall to block out any intruders, though much of the staff still hadn’t made it in by noon after the Story. With her big-shouldered black dress and jacket, she pretty much eclipsed all the light from the hallway.

  “What did Mr. Pietro say?”

  Katrina pawed carefully at Zelda’s drawings. “We know where he stands.”

  “But you have to show him first,” Zelda persisted.

  Boar Face’s smile froze a little. “And why is that?”

  “Collegiality.”

  “Of course,” Boar Face said with mock gratitude. “Once I have his job I’ll be very collegial.”

  Zelda knew she was roaming a little far out of her comfort zone, which is why she’d avoided the work world. Succeed and do well, but not at another’s expense. That wasn’t success, but corruption and elitism. A Family helps each other, Zelda silently recited Grandma’s Seventh Insight.

  “I kind of wish you would show him.”

  Boar Face’s shadow blotted out the chair.

  “Since I’m part of this,” Zelda went on.

  “Your insights and my guidance,” Katrina apprehended each syllable. “Partners.”

  “I’m glad my drawings inspired that…”

  “Inspired by my guidance,” she repeated wintrily. “As I’m inspiring your rise.” She sat on the arm of the chair; Zelda hoped she wasn’t propelled through the glass wall like a see-saw. “With me in charge, there’s an opening for you.”

  Zelda stared dimly. No one had ever offered her a promotion before. Other than art and dance and acting classes, she’d never even received a grade above a C. Boar Face sensed that and charged through the swamp.

  “I appreciate all this is new for you. Which is why your perspective is so wonderful. Fresh, like the sea air.” Katrina dragged Zelda and the chair closer to the desk. “Mr. Saul is a legend. But old. The organization needs new ideas. That’s what struck me about your sketches. Your salmon boy with the curly-haired fins and tail is priceless. My knowledge and your etchings make a powerful combo, Zelda.”

  Zelda smiled politely. “But Mr. Pietro…”

  “Pietro would nail you sitting down and then nail me standing on my head without wiping off his pecker,” Katrina growled, quickly resuming that sweet smile. Chomp on bones, swallow tendons. “Zelda, stick with me. I’ll teach what you need to know.”

  • • • •

  PUPPY BARELY MADE it to the Couples Room ahead of Annette. On his way, he’d been frozen outside a discount clothing store on East 175th where that piece of crap Hazel smirked through the window as if knowing Puppy was standing there, watching the vidnews.

  “Bring back the HGs. Local pitching legend Puppy Nedick, who doubles as the game’s historian, tried his hand at the AlleGed sport this morning.”

  Three clips of baseballs ricocheting off the left, center and right field walls.

  “Ouch. Oh not to be a baseball. But the good thing about the AG sport is pretty much anyone can try. No skills required. Check it out for yourself. Least they have some good food.”

  Hazel bit into a hot dog and barked, ending his two PM vidsports report with a smirk.

  Annette swept into the Couples Room as if riding a white cloud of happy. She startled the guard with a peck on his cap and gave Puppy a big smooch on the nose.

  “Hello, dear Puppy.” She frowned. “Why the sad face. Did you not get a doggie biscuit today?”

  “Screw you, Annette. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Be cheerful. It’s a beautiful day.” She rolled up the white shutters before the guard could stop her; they were a line of defense against an ex being tossed out the window. “Almost sunny. We’re young and alive.”

  “More or less.”

  Annette scooted her chair closer. Puppy tensed.

  “Am I too close?”

  “Depends what you’re planning.”

  She flapped her lips, making a popping noise. “You look well. Lost weight?”

  “A little. I’ve been vomiting more than usual.”

  “The less fat opens up your eyes. And me?”

  “Gorgeous as ever.”

  Annette waited for the guard to agree, spinning her red curls around. “What about the color?”

  “Astonishing.” Either she was on medication or plotting something. Sometimes she’d get this way after a shopping spree.

  “My potential fiancé agrees. He likes you, by the way.”

  Puppy slid his chair back a few inches. “I don’t know him.”

  “Oh yes you do.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yes you do.” Annette deliberated if it’d be fun to repeat the exchange one last time. “Elias.”

  He thought for a second. “Elias? Doesn’t go ding dong.”

  “Try Elias Kenuda.” Annette grinned as Puppy fell down the dark hole and out the other end.

  “Kenuda’s your fiancé?” he said dully.

  “Not officially. Remember Grandma’s wishes. That’s why we’re here.”

  “And stop talking in that sing-song voice,” he snapped.

  “Sorry. Love has buoyed me into the sky.” Annette shook the gold bracelet on her left wrist. “From guess who?”

  “Elias Kenuda.”

  “Oh, Puppy. Puppy, Puppy, Puppy. Elias and I agree you have such a way about you.”

  “You and Kenuda talk about me?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Stop saying oh yes.”

  “He likes you. And?”

  “What?” His lips didn’t move.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Oh yes. Maybe we can have a play date.”

  “That’d be lovely because he knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “That we were, you know.”

  “You can say married, Annette. It’s why we’re here.”

  They smiled at the relieved guard, who saw the day coming when these wretched people would be gone.

  “I didn’t go into details, Puppy. Oh, before he officially met you, I did complain a little about our, you know.”

  “Marriage,” he prompted.

  “Saying that perhaps you weren’t the best husband for a number of reasons.”

  “Which were?”

  Annette frowned. “I didn’t say. So many choices. Oh, maybe I mentioned you always had a lot of potential, all unrealized, of course.”

  He didn’t argue.

  “Certainly I wouldn’t go into, you know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither does anyone else. Like Kenuda.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll make sure he only hears good things so he supports your moronic baseball.”

  “He’s supporting baseball?”

  “If I stop saying oh yes will you stop repeating back my words? Good. Oh yes, he thinks, what does your Zelda say, it’s the bahm diggity.” She cackled. “Bahm diggity baseball.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “That is the point. Elias Kenuda will do whatever he can to help.”

  They stared with frozen smiles like a couple of gunslingers itching to d
raw.

  “If?” Puppy asked softly.

  “If?” Annette’s voice rose two octaves. “If you find someone.”

  He exhaled very slowly. “And should I not discover the love of my life?”

  “It doesn’t have to be the love of your life. Look at us.”

  His eyes watered from an equal brew of anger and hurt. Annette’s lower lip quivered; she knew she’d gone too far, making her rage defensively.

  “Anyone. Him.” She pointed at the guard, who recoiled. “One week, Puppy. Or else I will tell Kenuda every dirty filthy little thing you ever thought and did and they’ll bulldoze your beloved stadium right now. Understand?”

  “I hate you so much.” Puppy kicked the chair across the room.

  “And I hate you, too,” hissed Annette, crouching on the table.

  The guard called for back-up.

  • • • •

  AZHAR STAYED AWAY from the orphanage for three days. He spent most of the time on his boat, washing the deck and gaining strange satisfaction out of dumping suds into the ocean. He couldn’t look at Omar, the sullen smirks of the teen pushing his father away from the table, so Mustafa ate in the basement until Jalak’s loud and constant marches to the washing machine drove him outside.

  Last night he ate the kabsa laham under a tree. Jalak blandly took away his plate and fork as if this dining area were natural, leaving a bowl of pistachios and a clean napkin, then marching into the house and turning out the back light. When he woke the pistachios were gone; a breakfast roll with butter and figs had taken their place.

  Finally he returned to the orphanage, switching to the midnight to six shift. He sat downstairs in the main waiting area, aimlessly polishing the wood. Around two, Clary came out of the kitchen holding a tray of fruit and tea. Her eyes were half shut, swollen from the purple bruises on her forehead and cheekbone. She dropped the tray, widening eyes stretching the puffy tissue like clay.

  The bandage on her right cheek didn’t move.

  “I must explain,” he said quickly.

  Clary gave no sign she heard. He risked a step forward.

  “It wasn’t me. My son Omar, he is with the Holy Warriors. He did this. Allah forgive me for such a child that I brought into this world, it was him.”

  Her crooked smile scared him.

  “I will do whatever I can to help. I swear by God.”

  Azhar knelt and took her hands. Cold hands, drained of warmth, of life. He frowned at the bandage taped tightly to her cheek. He didn’t want to see anything that would deepen his shame.

  “What did they do to you, child?” he whispered, gently pulling off one side of the tape. She stared with lifeless hate as he lifted the bandage.

  A cross had been burnt into her skin. He wanted to cry.

  “They will pay who did this.”

  No child should ever smile like Clary. She moistened her lips, her voice a razor. “Mentiroso! ¡Me ha engañado desde el principio! Ahora voy a vengarme a todos. Un día, un día pronto voy a aparecer en el orfanato como un soldado desde infierno y matar a todos para todas que nos infligieron a mi y mi familia. Tu familia.”

  She knelt very daintily, as if training to be a proper young girl in a proper home, and picked up the fruit, wiping up the tea and resettling the cup and plate onto the tray. Clary smiled once more, bowing slightly, and walked up the steps to serve one of the filthy naked mullahs who had already raped her twice that night with more promised.

  Azhar left before the end of his shift. When he got home around four in the morning, the house lights blazed. Two glaring Warriors loitering by the hood of a black Lincoln in the narrow driveway.

  Jalak greeted him in the hallway, nervously wiping her hands on her burqua. Omar stood by the steps like a guard, Abdul at the top of the staircase, staring down, the only one honest enough to wear fear.

  “The Imam waits for you,” Jalak said.

  “Here?” he asked stupidly.

  She nodded at the closed study door.

  Imam Abboud sat patiently in Azhar’s favorite worn corduroy chair, flipping through a football book. “Your son likes the game.”

  “He’s just a boy,” Azhar apologized.

  “Is he good?” The Imam closed the book.

  Azhar shrugged. “Not enough to succeed. But it gives him joy.”

  “And you?”

  “Yes. We play together.”

  “Then it is a success.” The Imam gestured Azhar into another chair. “You are a good man, Azhar. Returning the Crusader child wasn’t easy. I hear you took a liking to her. That’s understandable. You are a parent. That’s why Omar said you wanted him to get the credit for capturing her.”

  His mind spun like a carousel.

  “Allah tests us in many ways. Especially when dealing with the Devil. I am pleased.”

  Azhar mumbled thanks.

  “Speaking of Satan, what did you think of the Crusader woman’s words?”

  It took him a moment. “The Grandma? Oh, I’m not for politics, Imam.”

  “Still, you must have an opinion.”

  “I would revere in yours.”

  Abboud frowned. “They are weak. To apologize as if it would matter anymore. Still, the Messenger of Allah was asked, “Can the believer be a coward?” To which he said, “Yes.” He was then asked, “Can the believer be a miser?’ To which he replied, “Yes.” And finally he was asked, “Can the believer be a liar?”

  Abboud waited, but Azhar thought better of answering.

  “No,” the Imam snapped. “Truth, Azhar. Truth must be paramount.” He played with the edge of his white robe before looking up intently. “Do you know the Grand Mufti’s son Abdullah?”

  Mustafa was thrown by the abrupt question. “Not personally.”

  The Iman smiled. “Now you will.”

  “But why?” Azhar blurted.

  “For truth.” The Iman stood. “Enjoy your sons. Omar is a fine boy. Pious. Abdul plays football well. I also have children. Three girls. Yes, Allah tests us all.” He sighed wearily. “Thank you for the hospitality at this hour. Oh, and there is no need for you to volunteer at the orphanage anymore.”

  Azhar knew he should not ask why. Still in their places as if by order of God Himself, his family waited anxiously once the Imam left. Azhar stared at Omar, who barely blinked in response as he turned up the steps.

  “So?” Jalak nudged Azhar.

  “I’m hungry. Get food on the table, woman.”

  “I want to know…”

  Mustafa rolled a football along the floor and kicked a perfect shot into Omar’s head, knocking him to one knee. Azhar’s fingers dug into the boy’s arm.

  “Never lie again.”

  Omar shook himself free. “Do not worry, Father. I did just this one time, out of respect for what you might have been.”

  “Might’ve been?” Azhar thundered. “You don’t know what might’ve been means. What we sacrificed to give you a world where it is all right to betray a poor child. Where a father hates his own blood…” Over Jalak’s gasp, Azhar shouted, “Never talk to me that way again. Ever. Do you hear?”

  “It is not your world anymore, Father. It is mine.” Omar calmly stared at his father’s raised fist and laughed. “I must pray.”

  Once his brother left, Abdul slid his arm around Azhar’s waist. “Are we in trouble, Father?”

  Mustafa closed his eyes and asked Allah for forgiveness. “No.” He smiled bravely. “Come and practice before your mother poisons us with breakfast.”

  22

  Kenuda sneered disdainfully at the Three Amigos mural.

  “Those were the traitors, right?”

  Puppy stiffened. “No. Mooshie died under mysterious circumstances and Easy Sun Yen and Derek Singh served with distinction in the Marines.”

  “No one served with distinction.” Elias shook his head at the failure of the American military. He touched the mural as Boccicelli and Fisher held their breath.

  “It was a famous artist.” Puppy wan
ted to slap his hand away. “Latsha Di. Perhaps you heard of her?” Kenuda sniffed. “She also painted the Children’s Main Mural in Grandma’s House, the Catastrophe of Los Angeles and the Midtown Pile, if you’ve ever seen that.”

  “I have, Mr. Historian.” Kenuda said dismissively of the famous mural on the side of the abandoned Chrysler Building in Manhattan, depicting the carnage of the Allah chemical attack. “Well, shall we continue?”

  Exchanging rolls of their eyes, Kenuda and Hazel walked past the DV teens lined up along the pavilion with brooms in hands, floor swept clean, heads slightly bowed like a custodial army.

  “Careful, sir.” Frecklie pointed at a gaping hole, disappointing Puppy, who would’ve enjoyed watching Kenuda crack open his skull.

  “What is this?” Kenuda asked everyone.

  “One of the mortar craters, Third Cousin,” Puppy answered with excessive pleasantness. “The Miners were arrayed there.” He gestured toward the outside wall; Kenuda and Hazel moved away. “The BTs shelled them from up there.” He nodded at the shattered escalators at the end of the huge hall. “There was a vicious crossfire from the souvenir shop.” He took them past the broken glass and around a few more holes.

  Kenuda shook his head, not for the victims. “It’s a mess.”

  “It’s supposed to be that way.”

  “Yes, I know.” Elias nearly tripped into another hole, grumbling. A DV handed him a plate of tacos and pierogi; the Third Cousin recoiled.

  “Tacos,” Puppy said helpfully, resisting the urge to take a bite and make yummy sounds. “Pierogi.”

  “We are allowed to have food from enslaved nations,” Fisher piped up.

  “Mexico is not part of the Caliphate,” Kenuda said with disgust. He smelled a taco and found the courage to nibble. He grunted in surprise and finished off the snacks as Puppy led them into the ballpark.

  Kenuda’s large frame froze in the entrance. Maybe Puppy was being excessively hopeful, but for a moment, he thought he glimpsed genuine dismay.