A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Moisturizer time, he sighed sadly at the creases around the somber eyes. Pablo debated over three ties and hurried into the waiting room. The dark-haired and sandy-haired men slouched comfortably as if Pablo’s office were their living room, watching a tennis match from Louisville and exchanging biting comments about the players’ styles.

  The dark-haired man opened a brown leather notebook.

  “Must be tired, Dr. Diaz.”

  Pablo suddenly understood. He shrugged, careful not to admit to fatigue.

  “You’re not tired after working fourteen hours?” the sandy-haired man groaned at a poor serve. “Because you’re superhuman or aren’t challenged enough by the job?”

  “I suspect there’s a right and wrong answer to that,” Pablo replied carefully. “As always.”

  Pablo jiggled the marble in his right pocket. The dark-haired man muted the vidnews.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Shouldn’t you tell me how the Cousins review is going?” Pablo squeezed his hands, then stopped, afraid they’d take that as nerves.

  The dark-haired man motioned for his colleague to answer. “It’s not a review. You’ve already been reviewed.”

  “Then the process,” Pablo said in exasperation.

  “Do you find it difficult?” the dark-haired man leaned forward.

  “Kind of maddening, the obscurity of it all.”

  “As a man of science, you prefer clarity.”

  “Instead of riddles, yes. Naked woman in the shower, a boy turned into a talking puppet.”

  The dark-haired man smiled. “Neat tricks. Wish we’d thought of them.”

  “You had nothing to do with it?”

  The sandy-haired man fiddled with the cuff of his trousers. “If you can’t handle this, then how can you handle the rigors of being a Cousin?”

  Pablo smiled. “Good point. But I can’t answer that if I don’t know what they are.”

  The sandy-haired man grunted. “Then how do you know you’re capable?”

  He hesitated. “Perhaps I’m not.”

  The men exchanged curious glances.

  “Honesty.” The dark-haired man smiled. “Honesty about yourself is a key. Knowing what you don’t know so you can discover it without preconceptions of your ego. Dispassionate passion.”

  “My specialty.”

  The men laughed.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You are a serious man, Dr. Diaz,” the sandy-haired man admitted. “For someone who’s personal life is in turmoil.”

  Pablo laughed bitterly. “I have no personal life.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “Which ones?”

  “You only have two. Zelda and Puppy. Nice of them to still invite you to the engagement party after the fight.”

  He put down the gift-wrapped bottle of Arkansas champagne. “Sometimes friends argue.”

  “About?”

  Pablo deliberated. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Over?” the dark-haired man said skeptically.

  “His fiancé. I don’t think she’s the person she makes herself out to be.”

  “Oh.” They raised their eyebrows. “What does she make herself out to be?”

  He weighed the words around his back molars. “A real human being.”

  That satisfied them a moment. Pablo smiled at the small victory.

  The dark-haired man continued, “And how about Zelda?”

  “What about her?”

  “Isn’t it a little awkward, the two of you.”

  Pablo’s eyes narrowed. “Not at all.”

  “Even after you slept together?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Ah,” the dark-haired man smiled humorlessly. “Deceit is the shawl of honor.”

  Pablo’s lips twisted. “Grandma never said that.”

  “I just did.”

  “It’s a crappy line.” Pablo squared his hips. “What do you want?”

  “What do you want?”

  “If I say I want to be a Cousin, that suggests ambition. If I seem blasé, that suggests indifference. What if I just want to do some good? That satisfy you?”

  “If that’s what you think.”

  “But not what I’m supposed to think.”

  The men exchanged sad looks.

  “The damn riddles are getting tiring,” Pablo snapped.

  “Riddles are tiring for people who don’t understand,” the dark-haired man said. “Or for people who spend their lives observing.”

  Pablo flinched. “Add that to your damn report.”

  The dark-haired man held up the blank pages. “That’s up to you.”

  • • • •

  WAVING OFF JIMMY’S offer to do the honors, Zelda poured the champagne into their four glasses; Mick sadly held up a bottle of soda.

  “We’re proud of you.” Puppy nudged Mick, who growled from his bowels. Mantle was marking a week on the wagon and his batting average was up to .255; he finally clocked his first homer, an inside-the-park job when the Falcons centerfielder collapsed on the warning track.

  “Okay, gang.” Zelda raised her glass, waiting until Puppy angrily shoved the empty extra chair by another table. She sighed. Friendship was faith. Pablo would be here. “Two White Grampas, thanks for coming to the engagement party.”

  “Ain’t no food,” Ty muttered.

  Zelda snatched a bowl of pretzels from an adjoining table. “Fully catered. I might have some SC chocolate in my purse if I get a smile out of you.”

  Zelda clearly had had a few before coming, plus the drink alone where Puppy profusely apologized for his insensitivity. Zelda tickled Ty’s chin and his lips parted grudgingly.

  “See how we Negroes always makes the white folks happy? Now on to the new couple.”

  Tradition insisted the prospective best person throw the engaged couple a formal toast within twenty-four hours, so they got used to the notion straight away, like breaking in a pair of shoes.

  An older couple paused by the table to shake Mooshie’s hand; autographs and photographs had been long banned as part of the Anti-Narcissism Act.

  “To my new friend Dara.” Zelda and Mooshie clinked glasses. “And my old friend Puppy.” They clinked glasses; Mooshie carefully watched Zelda’s cloudy expression. “And to our new friends who are like old friends, Mick and Ty.”

  A few tables listened in.

  “Let their love transcend,” Zelda said, her hand shaking slightly as she recited Grandma’s Love Pledge. “Let their love be as one. Let their love light themselves and let their love light all of us.” She stood. “To Dara and Puppy.”

  “To Dara and Puppy,” the bar shouted, applauding.

  Zelda poked the blank Puppy. “Your turn.”

  He couldn’t remember the words. He knew he’d said them to Annette, otherwise they wouldn’t have had all those wondrous years together.

  Mooshie held up her glass and he joined her, wobbling to his feet. This is Mooshie Lopez I’m engaged to. Fake or not. Dead or alive.

  “Let me help my fiancé. His mouth is frozen with love.” She said to the packed room. “I was married once before.” Actually three times. Paula the gymnast with a short leg. Jen the writer, who wrote poetic crap. And after she’d retired, briefly to Jeff, the burly restaurant owner. Puppy despised those names.

  “To my beloved. Who I love and know loves me.” Mooshie waited; Puppy just stared stupidly. “Repeat, my shy guy.”

  The bar cracked up.

  “To my beloved. Who I love and know loves me,” he repeated.

  “We stand together, to serve each other and The Family.”

  “We stand together, to serve each other and The Family.”

  “May our fortune be our love.”

  “May our fortune be our love.” Puppy grinned stupidly.

  His fiancé kissed him tenderly on the lips. He nearly fainted.

  The patrons shouted, “May their fortune be our love.”

  Mooshie winked,
grinning. “And to show my love to my love, I want to sing a song that from way before any of us were born, from a group called The Four Seasons.”

  In the corner, the pianist tinkled the keys and the drummer picked up the slow beat. Jimmy grinned and tossed her the mike. Mooshie sang My Eyes Adored You. The music stopped and Mooshie nestled on his lap, in his arms, kissing him fervently; his knees buckled, sitting down. The bar went nuts.

  • • • •

  THE BEEPING IN the medicine cabinet startled Zelda; she nearly swallowed her toothbrush. Damn, she muttered. The beeping continued, not growing louder, just with that same disappointed haughtiness that she needed a reminder at all.

  Zelda peered at the date. Okay, she said to the little red box with the smiling beeping light which all women in America had. I forgot by two weeks, she held up a couple fingers, dropping her sticky toothbrush back into the Frida Fried Dumplings oral hygiene cup Puppy bought her to celebrate Grandma’s birthday last year. Zelda rummaged under the sink for the monthly pregnancy test kit, squatted on the toilet and peed into the cup.

  She laid the purple receptacle on the sink and returned to the kitchen, pouring coffee and finishing off a raspberry donut while she drone-dazed into the vidnews. Two stinky looking teenagers in North Carolina talked about their scientific breakthrough in purifying water.

  So nice we have geniuses to make up for the rest of us, Zelda thought, tugging the bakery box out of the fridge and pondering which of the three remaining powdered donuts had the cream filling. She bit into the middle one and apple spurted onto her chin. Sorry, little guy, it’s your turn. But don’t think you other two are off the hook. I said I wanted cream filled and that is what Zelda will have.

  Oh no, fat girl with the double chin, save us, pleaded the chunky donut to the left.

  Don’t listen to him, beautiful girl, beseeched the donut guy hugging the right side of the box. He’s tricking you. Eat him and save me so we can live in eternal togetherness like Puppy and Mooshie.

  Zelda dropped the box onto her lap, frowning at the other voice in the apartment not coming from her head.

  “Congratulations. You’re going to be a mother.”

  Accusing the vidnews, Zelda hoped it was an advert for baby powder or baby food or some gross product. Nope, just Grandma and some kids singing the stupid locomotion song.

  “Congratulations. You’re going to be a mother.”

  Zelda dropped the donuts and hurried into the bathroom. The cup was jiggling side to side joyfully.

  “Congratulations. You’re going to be a mother.”

  She tried choking the cup, but it kept congratulating her. Zelda shoved it under the sink and hid behind the shower curtain until the damn thing shut up. She brought the cup into the living room and took a deep breath. The brief message danced gaily around the inside of the cup.

  “Bring this cup into a Parents Benefits Center to register. We’re so happy.”

  Zelda finished the last donut and stared dully at the vidnews. Grandma’s sweet voice joined her on the couch.

  “Aren’t they precious?” Grandma hugged the three children squirming like puppies. “They’re the Machado triplets: Joyce, Marlene and Rita. Don’t you just love them?”

  She looked directly at Zelda. “Who wouldn’t love them? Who wouldn’t want triplets?”

  “Shut up,” Zelda said.

  “The joys of parenting enrich everyone. Especially you.” Grandma’s eyes grew larger.

  “Shut up.” Zelda pounded on the vidnews, but the protective glass bruised her hands.

  “If you’re not a parent yet, don’t panic. Go to any Benefits Center for your tests. And if that fails, don’t worry, darlings.”

  Zelda smashed a dining room chair against the screen.

  “We have babies for you.”

  She pounded again and again until the screen cracked and Grandma’s huge eyes disappeared with a sad sizzling sigh.

  25

  Grandma finally snapped at him to stop by the one hundredth and eighty-fourth slide. Cheng let the screen flash a few more photos of KILL ALLAHS scribbled on the side of apartment houses, schools, government offices and simple bodegas before switching off the projector and turning on the lights in her small study.

  “Was anything coordinated?”

  “There’s no evidence to suggest that. Not even a mottled orange wig.”

  Grandma stared off. “Any assaults?”

  Cheng nodded. “There’s footage.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she said coldly, offering him an Austin cognac, which he gratefully accepted. It’d been a long night of poring over follow-up reports to her Story.

  “Serious injuries?”

  “Some broken bones. Mainly Mediterranean and Hispanic ancestry, the complexion and all.”

  “Let’s renew the ban on facial hair and women’s scarves.”

  “Will that really help?”

  Grandma took a long sip, longer than usual, the skin on her chin drooping. “It’ll remind people.”

  “We should start arrests.”

  She slammed down the glass, spilling cognac on her skirt. “That’ll show concern.”

  “And you’re not?” Cheng sipped slowly.

  “There’ll always be angry people. I understand that. I’m not comfortable with the assaults, but let’s find out who had a mustache or beard that might’ve precipitated it.”

  “And scarves. It’ll only get worse.”

  Grandma gave him a nasty stare. “I want schools adopting this curriculum immediately. And I don’t want a debate, Albert. We’ve got to start somewhere. One hundred and eighty-four incidents isn’t bad. I expected worse.”

  “Give it time.”

  “It’s the price we’ll pay for real peace. Real love, Albert.”

  “Perhaps you should start by showing me some.”

  “What’re you talking about?

  He waited a moment before answering. “Why won’t you trust me, Lenora?”

  Grandma smiled as if surprised he took this long to ask. “Because you’ll be unhappy.”

  “I’m unhappier being left out. You’re doing something significant without involving me. Which by law…”

  “Are you going to recite the Family Vows…”

  “Just the one pertaining to you consulting the First Cousin before launching a major new policy.”

  “I haven’t launched it yet.”

  “But you hope to.”

  She poured them another drink.

  “Is that why Major Stilton activated his A3?”

  Her jaw tightened in grudging respect. “Very good, First Cousin. Do you also track when I use my A1 cover?”

  “Yes,” Cheng said steadily. “It’s my job to run the damn country, Lenora.” And you get all the credit. Me, the grief. He’d founded the Cousins, the whole concept. Structure, giving the people something different. Not just a new government but a new idea. Sure, she was the driving public force; he wasn’t exactly warm. But someone had to be a shit so she could be the doting grandmother, rising above the petty bureaucratic struggles and difficult, ugly decisions.

  “I need to know what’s going on,” he continued. “So where is your head of security going?”

  Lenora sighed.

  “I’ll find out eventually.”

  She flinched. “That almost sounds like a threat.”

  Cheng smiled. “Never, Lenora. I’ll support everything you do, as I always have.” His voice hardened. “But I need to be in the loop.”

  Grandma sighed again and made them a fresh pot of coffee.

  • • • •

  ALL 104 POUNDS of Ian Schrage, most seemingly contained in the tall plant-like red hair, hopped off the top of the Hawks dugout and, with a dignified air reserved for conquering generals and creative types, marched up to Ty and Mick.

  They stepped back with meek wariness.

  “You look like undertakers.” He jammed his palms into their kneecaps.

  “I’m the undertaker,�
� sniffed Ms. Hayden.

  “Yes, obviously. They’re not.” He sneered. “They are baseball players. Look up in the sky, dearie. What do you see? Yes, you see it is a baseball stadium.”

  Schrage bounced like a ball not fully inflated toward home plate. “This being a base. That a field. This a dugout. Keeping up, now? Who may I ask sanctioned said wardrobe, when according to the terms of my employment it said, as I need to repeat to all: The director shall have complete creative control.”

  Puppy raised his hand slowly. “I did.”

  “Ah, the historian. Of course, you have a great knowledge of fashion.” Ian fingered Puppy’s droopy black hoodie.

  “We told him to check with you,” Fisher said over Boccaccelli’s shoulder from the comparative safety of the fourth row.

  Ian shut his eyes as if not wanting an answer. “You are again?”

  “Owners of the teams.”

  “Well, well, well. And you have directed how many adverts? Supervised how many advert campaigns? What was that? I can’t hear.” Cupping both ears, Ian hopped back onto the top of the dugout. The owners gasped and moved up a few rows. “Stay there. You. Bad hair girl.”

  Hayden maintained her resolve as they met by the on-deck circle, snapping, “I want them to look dignified. I was promised creative control, too.”

  “Well that person lied.” He whistled at Mick and Ty. “Now get out of those disgusting suits and into your uniforms before I charge overtime.”

  Fisher and Boccacelli nearly keeled over. Ty and Mick disappeared into the dugout. Hayden motioned Puppy over and together they followed Ian to the two coffins between home and the mound.

  “Can I see the revised script?” Ms. Hayden asked.

  “Revised assumes it was a script at all.” Ian scowled at the cameraperson. “Did you see there is dust on the hood? Wipe it.” He flung a handkerchief. “Yessss?” he snapped at Hayden, wondering why she was still standing there.

  “I want to know what they’re saying, Mr. Schrage.”

  “You will when I figure it out. Ah, there they are, the handsome gentlemen.” Ian grabbed the uniformed Mick and Ty by their hands as if greeting long-lost uncles. “Look at you.” He took them on a little circle around the coffins. “How do you feel?”