A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Mick peered into the coffin. “Like we been at this rodeo before.”

  “Where’s the velvet pillows?” Ty roared.

  “Yes, where are they?” Ian clapped his hands and two assistants raced over with pillows. “These, sir?”

  Ty and Mickey pressed their faces against the pillows and grunted, satisfied.

  “Excellent.” Ian placed the pillows gently down. “Get in. Feel the sense of the product.”

  “How do you think we got here?” Cobb muttered.

  “He’s thinking of the limo service we use,” Puppy interrupted. He had to nod three times before the reluctant White Grampas climbed into the coffins.

  “Be careful with them, they’re top of the line,” Ms. Hayden shouted.

  Ian’s leathery face squished together as he bounced in front of Hayden. “Go sit there.”

  “I’m the client. I’m paying a great deal of money.”

  “I’m the client. I have money. I can’t match my colors,” Ian mocked savagely. “In the seats. Now. Or I walk and then you’ve wasted my upfront fee.”

  She glared.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  Adona gave Puppy a dirty look for hiring such a person at such a cost and joined Boccaccelli and Fisher.

  “Thank you.” Ian bowed and leaned into the coffins, whispering. “How’s it feel?”

  “I think I dozed,” Ty admitted.

  “It’s a lovely product.”

  “I wish my family woulda used this the first time around,” Mick said.

  “These men are naturals.” Ian proclaimed happily. “Let’s get this voyage underway.”

  Boccaccelli stepped shyly onto the field, coughing in different octaves until Ian raised an eyebrow.

  “You are who again?”

  “Boccaccelli, owner…”

  “I know who you are,” Ian rasped, squirming into his director’s chair by the first base line. “Unlike thou, I’m not a moron. What do you want?”

  He gestured into the Falcons’ dugout, where the team sat, stone-faced. “If the Hawks players are being used, so should my team.”

  Puppy hurried over. “That’s because Ty and Mick are stars.”

  “Because they play my team.”

  “Because they’re my stars.” Fisher jumped onto the field.

  “I’m not paying for more actors.” Hayden rushed into the fray.

  They yelled at each other for another few minutes while Ian checked camera angles and Ty and Mick dozed in the coffins.

  “Is everyone done?” Schrage screamed. They quieted. “Pardon, I must consult with the historian.” Ian beckoned Puppy near first base. “This seems a very sensitive issue.”

  “Technically the two teams share everything.”

  “Except me.”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “I am not changing my vision for your stupidity.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.” Puppy smiled. “Just work them in somehow. No one’s smart enough to figure this out except you.”

  “Cut the crap, girl.” Ian’s lower lip puffed up as he studied the expression-less Falcons. “Perhaps there’s a way. As long as you do not talk to me again. Ever.”

  “Gladly.”

  • • • •

  MOOSHIE SWIVELED AROUND in the narrow dressing room, inspecting the tight red dress in the trio of mirrors. She patted her butt. “This look good?”

  Zelda faked sudden attention. “Yes. Hot.”

  “Want to generate a little more oomph on the hot?”

  “Sensational.”

  “But not fat? I was a size four once. Eight for a while after they retired me.” She popped her head out the door. “Darling, could I get the black and mauve in this cut, size six?”

  “I was never a four.” Zelda clenched her fingers, wondering if they were swollen.

  Beth entered with a grim air, the two dresses folded over her arm as if she were selling discount cancer treatments.

  Mooshie glanced at the tag and darkened. “Honey, these are eights.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She took her scowl in Zelda’s direction. “I said six, didn’t I?”

  Zelda shrugged, staying out of the way. No wonder Puppy recommended this dressmaker. Just his type. A pretty bitch.

  “Eight’s best.” Beth didn’t smile nor engage in any basic retail procedures like pleasantries or deference or acting as if she cared about customers, other than a quick searching glance at Zelda’s butt.

  Lopez put her foot onto the stool and tilted her head quizzically. She didn’t smile either. “Are you saying I’m an eight when I know I’m a six?”

  “I can measure with my eyes.”

  Zelda muffled a grin.

  “How about just giving me what I want?” Mooshie snapped.

  The woman shook her head. “I won’t sell wrong sizes. It’s my job to know what fits, not yours.”

  Grandma’s Capitalism Reform Act of 2076 enshrining honesty in business was about ten years after Mooshie’s death, explaining her bewildered anger. “What if I go elsewhere?”

  “You came here because of our reputation for quality. If you want to go elsewhere out of vanity, that’s your choice. Please let me know if I can serve you any other way.”

  Mooshie stared at the closed door for a few moments. “That’s one nasty DDV.”

  “DDV?”

  “Deeply disappointed villager.” She smirked. “Ones who won’t budge from their sour position, who piss on the whole system. Used to be the whole damn DV. They had riots back in the early 60s at the start of the war. You know that?”

  Zelda squeezed her swelling ankles and imagined blowing up and never fitting into anything. Oh, sorry ma’am, we just sold the last size fifty-six, but we have some tents out in the storage shed. She’ll be like a balloon that can’t fly. They’ll tie a rope around her neck and roll her up and down the hills. What happens the first time her belly falls over her belt at work? Good thing she’s already fat. No one notices fat girls having babies.

  “Later they blamed the Miners and the revolt and the security needs. But it was the government who first herded people inside the DV communities, then threw tests down their throats. You get out if you score this highly on this test. Math, science, all psych-balanced, all rigged to keep a steady supply of cannon fodder against the Camels. Same old story about war, the rich decide, the poor die. Bat-shit crazy Grandma and her cronies wrapped all the crap in a bow and said it was Christmas. When there was one. You had to prove you belonged in the Family. Worthy, deserving.” Mooshie sneered. “All about blaming someone for the war going to hell when the people in the DVs, they just wanted to fight. They did fight. It was the Regs who screwed up. Who ran. Americans running. On the battlefield and in the war rooms.”

  Mooshie paused for a breath. “That girl reminds me of my first wife Jen. Same insolent suck my butt look. I miss Jen. I think I loved her most of all. Plus she always told me if I looked fat even though I was a size four.”

  Mooshie bought three size eights, double checking on the return policy with the smug Beth, and led them to a bench by the water, where Zelda ate the last of the Irene’s Iced Cakes, licking the chocolate crumbs off her fingertips and then turning on the gold wrapping.

  Mooshie wiped Zelda’s hands and whispered, “What’s up, sweet cakes? You haven’t stared at my tits all morning.”

  Zelda shrugged, her lower lip quivering.

  Mooshie nodded severely. “Are you sure?”

  “About what?”

  Lopez hugged her. “It’s all over your face, brown eyes. Surprised Pup’s friend didn’t suggest you buy baby clothes. When’d you find out?”

  “The happy cup sang this morning. Don’t tell Puppy.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m serious. He and Pablo can’t know. No one can. I’m finally doing well at a job…” Zelda recited her list of things that-had-been-going-well-for-once-in-her-life-and-which-were-now-in-a-big-stinky-dumpster.

  “T
hen get rid of it.”

  Zelda gasped. “What?”

  “Have an abortion.” Mooshie shrugged. “Quick, easy. I had two.”

  Zelda gasped again. “Mooshie, that’s illegal.”

  “Oh shit, what else did the bitch do while I was dead?”

  “No more abortions. That’s a capital offense.”

  Mooshie tossed the rest of her ham and cheese hero into the garbage before Zelda could stop her. “As if Grandma needs a reason for insanity, but why?”

  “We lost thirteen million in the war, Moosh. We’re surrounded by Allahs, who breed like animals. We need the babies, the children. That makes sense to me.”

  Lopez gave her a pitying look. “So you execute someone for getting rid of an unwanted baby.”

  “Look, I don’t want to debate the politics, okay?”

  “Okay, okay.” Mooshie said soothingly. “Know whose kid it is?”

  Zelda sighed.

  “Terrific. Can you narrow it down?”

  “I had an upsetting month.”

  “And needed to feel you had something going for you.”

  Zelda nodded glumly. Six guys. No. Seven. Six on the bed, one of the floor.

  “Been there. Most of my life,” Lopez said softly. “Did you consider condoms?”

  Zelda laughed. “What’re those?”

  “Those latex baggies that slip over the guy’s pecker?”

  “They’ve been outlawed since the Next Generations Act of 2078. Condoms, any birth control devices or pills. That’s also a capital offense for women, men, doctors, anyone.”

  Mooshie shook her head disgustedly. “What happens next?”

  “The results have gone into the Central Information Department. The cycle cup is hooked up. And no, I don’t know how. They give you a month to come forward. If you’re married, great. Or even if you’re engaged. Accidents happen so they overlook the slight illegality. If you’re single, I’m not so sure. I’ve never known anyone who got pregnant outside marriage or impending marriage or if they did, admitted it.”

  Zelda laid her head on Mooshie’s shoulder and cried for a few minutes.

  “Do you want the kid, chubby cheeks?”

  She looked up, puzzled. “Not at all, but that doesn’t matter. I can’t keep it, Moosh.”

  • • • •

  JALAK CAREFULLY LAID down another three pairs of socks, stopping Azhar from zipping up the suitcase.

  “I only have two feet,” he protested gently.

  “You’ll get wet. You don’t look where you’re going.” She averted his eyes. “Did you count your shirts?”

  “Twelve should be enough.”

  “For each day?”

  Mustafa tugged her down to the bed. “Don’t try to guess how long I’ll be away.”

  “It would help so I know if something’s wrong.” Her eyes watered.

  “Nothing will be wrong. It’s a simple fishing trip.”

  Jalak’s lips pressed together. “We have been married eighteen years. Now you decide to lie?”

  Azhar grabbed the suitcase. “And after eighteen years, could you finally stop doubting me? Or do you think I will be swimming around with young girls?”

  “I don’t worry about the girls, Azhar,” she said fearfully.

  He paused reluctantly at the front door, hoping a text or email or call would arrive on the wings of an angel and rescue him. He checked his cell with the screen saver photo of his family. Nothing. Abdul hugged him tightly, too tightly. He was also scared.

  “When will you be back, Poppa?”

  “Soon. It’s just a fishing trip.”

  “Do not ask questions of your father.” Jalak smacked his shoulder. “He will be back when he is back.”

  Mustafa kissed Abdul and gave Jalak a strong smile. “Practice cooking when I’m gone.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  Azhar tossed his suitcase into the back of the car. Omar passed in his long black robe, eyes lowered, sullen, withdrawn.

  “See you soon.” Azhar extended his hand. The boy clutched the Qaran to his chest and hopped onto his bicycle, pedaling away furiously as if his father were a Catholic priest. At least he wasn’t scared. Just angry.

  What have you given me, Allah? Mustafa wondered as he drove to the main Barcelona train station, parking in the long-term lot. He’d been instructed by the Imam to behave at all times as if he were simply a traveler with no special privileges. While a line of Crusaders buying rail tickets stretched across the shabby station, Azhar only had to wait a few minutes on the Believers queue.

  He boarded the express train, flinging his bag into the overhead bin with a spasm of resentment and quickly falling asleep to Ali Khan’s enchanting ballads on his phone. He dreamed of opening the suitcase where Jalak popped out, naked except for his socks, holding a plate of dried out lamb.

  Azhar woke, quickly looking around in case someone on the train had the power to listen to his dreams. Only Allah, he reminded himself. You should be honored for whatever you are about to do. It is important. The Mufti’s son. The Son. Then why did the Imam seem uneasy? He sighed deeply and cautioned himself to save some oxygen.

  He dozed again, exhausted by the internal anxiety. Once they crossed the border at Andorra, the train sat for about an hour. Azhar ate the kabsa laham, watching through the window as the engineers were joined by two other workers sadly shaking their heads.

  Breakdowns were common on the rails. If there ever were an explanation, it was that the Crusaders had sabotaged the railway system as their godless souls were driven away from holy lands. That was nearly thirty years ago. Azhar risked some analysis to get his mind off the lamb. Surely the problems should’ve been fixed by now. The buses in the city also crept along like old women, smoking disrepair. Only the autobahns seemed clear, cars whizzing past the clogged Crusader car lanes.

  Or perhaps they still sabotaged. He’d seen the crucifixions, Infidels signs draped around the Crusader necks, planted every so often along the roads, usually to celebrate a holy day. How many of them were mechanics? Perhaps one of them pulled out a plug here and there. But if the Crusaders sabotaged trains and buses, why not the autos? He suddenly saw in the shadows of approaching dusk, Clary kneeling with a blowtorch, cutting wires, laughing. He shuddered.

  Little was ever fully told because only Allah ultimately understood. Mustafa wished he understood something of what Allah understood, as heretical as that was. How else can we obey? The Mufti’s son, he understood what Allah understood. He also understood what man didn’t understand, like straddling the two worlds.

  Stop thinking and pray there is food at the other end of the trip.

  The train groaned forward, as if it could hear his thoughts. Allah on wheels, he smiled. The workers waved happily to all the peering passengers by the windows and the express gathered steam, heading non-stop to Le Cirque, about forty miles west of the Bay of Biscay. Azhar was the only person to get off, earning curious stares as he, too, waved at the train, continuing north to the Caliphate of Paris.

  He carried the suitcase into the tiny station.

  “As-salam alaykum,” said the bored clerk behind the window.

  Azhar nodded a reply. “I am a simple traveler and would appreciate, Allah willing, knowledge on getting to Dambier.”

  The clerk wordlessly slid a map through the grill, pointing.

  “Thank you. How does one get there?”

  “There are no trains.”

  “Which is why I’m here enjoying your hospitality.”

  The men exchanged respectful nods. The clerk slid a bus schedule on top of the map.

  The ancient bus waddled arthritically, stopping only once when a cage rattled open and chickens flew out of the back window. After the chickens were quickly rounded up by the passengers and driver, the relieved owner running up and down the aisle twice to express his deepest thanks, the vehicle, generously named, coughed into Dambier a mere thirty minutes late; in the Caliphate, that was considered early.

&
nbsp; Azhar hurried down several cobblestoned hills and over a small bridge that was annoyed by his weight. He made a wrong turn in the dark and panicked slightly. He’d been told nine-thirty, the latest. By ten he finally found the small harbor, more a wooden dock with several sleeping ships rocking.

  A single light on board guided him to a sixty-foot boat. A man nearly as wide as the dock stood with hands clasped, his expression assuring one and all that he could stand here in silent patience until Mohammad came down for a visit.

  Azhar nodded. The man waited.

  What am I to say? he thought frantically. He was only given directions.

  He bowed. “Azhar Mustafa.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. Mustafa was so poor at the bullying art of his people.

  “I am the Captain of this vessel. Are you the crew?”

  The man studied Mustafa carefully and stepped aside.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  The man turned his back and resumed his statue-like waiting. Maybe Mohammad was visiting. Azhar carefully descended the metal steps below deck. A twin of the man stood before a door.

  Abdullah walked out, re-arranging his gold robe. “Captain. Welcome aboard.”

  • • • •

  THE HUGE VIDSCREEN filled with the charred upper deck of Amazon Stadium, gloomy morning rain clouds approaching carelessly. Sweeping down over the battered and blackened scoreboard, the camera paused in deep center field, waiting patiently.

  Suddenly they panned over the new outfield grass as if a throw were heading toward home, flying over second base and past the mound until the camera rested on the two mahogany coffins surrounded by the mute, expressionless starting lineup of the Falcons. They tapped their bats once. Twice.

  The coffins squeaked open very slowly. Ty and Mickey sat up. They put on their baseball caps and turned toward the cameras. Baroque piano music kicked in.

  “I’m Ty Cobb.”

  “And I’m Mickey Mantle.”

  Together, “We’re the stars of the Bronx Hawks.”

  “Our job is to score runs,” said Ty.

  “Hit homers,” added Mick.

  Collectively, “And win games.”

  Ty said, “But sometimes, life strikes you out.”