A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “Of course.”

  “Elias brought some strange good looking guy who didn’t say a word all night except stared at me like our fucking cab driver. Hello.” She banged on the glass window. “You got a problem?”

  “Sorry ma’am. I seen you on the vidnews.”

  Mooshie relaxed. What a ham, Zelda smiled.

  “You remember my name?”

  “Dara Dinton.” The ‘bot turned away bashfully. “I got one of your tunes on the rad. Copied it this morning. The Beach Boys cover.”

  “Cover?” Mooshie said in mock indignation. “You saying my version of I Get Around is some shit imitation?”

  “No, no, no.” It took both hands off the wheel; they nearly grazed a bus. “You’re much better.”

  “Damn straight.” Mooshie slid away the glass and stuck her head onto the robot’s shoulder. “If you got it, play it.”

  They listened to Mooshie’s version four times, the last with her singing along, before pulling up before the two-story house with the wide front yard in Pelham Parkway. The ‘bot’s black eyebrows raised knowingly as he looked between the women, trying to figure out which one was pregnant. Lopez slipped two tickets into its pocket.

  “This is for Thursday’s show. Bring a friend.”

  The A21 tapped the tickets as if they were a real face. “Thank you, Miss Dinton. I’d be honored.”

  “Just applaud, scream and act delirious.”

  “How can I not?”

  She kissed it on the forehead; the A21 pulsed a blush.

  Mooshie led Zelda past the discarded red bicycles on the front walkway, ducking under Happy Birthday Danielle balloons hanging from the porch, and into the narrow hallway. A gray-haired woman greeted them with a friendly smile, wiping her hands on the checkered apron.

  “I’ve been baking cookies. Chocolate chip, which I hope you like. One of Grandma’s recipes. Forgive the mess.” She shrugged helplessly at the toys and balls and plates all over the living room. She motioned them onto the comfortable plaid couch where they waited quietly. Children squealed somewhere in the back.

  “It’s play time. I give them an hour to run wild.” The woman suddenly noticed Mooshie, asking pleasantly, “Who are you?”

  “Dara Dinton. Her friend.”

  “Friends are good, too.”

  Zelda wondered how the woman could talk and never stop smiling. She hated her.

  “And will you be accompanying Zelda every week?”

  Mooshie nodded slowly.

  “Well then, we can all have a most pleasant relationship. Zelda, how do you feel?”

  “Scared.”

  “Parenthood is daunting. The most important job we will ever have. For no matter how long.”

  “Seven and a half months,” Zelda said.

  “But you’re still a mother and always will be. Have you told your employer?”

  Zelda shook her head. “Not yet. It’s a busy time of year.”

  “You’re afraid?”

  “I just got the job and I’m doing well…”

  The woman’s smile deepened, somehow. “They can’t take that from you. If they discriminate in any way, any way, Zelda, their business will close and they will go elsewhere.”

  Elsewhere hung ominously.

  “They’re there to support you. Nurture you, along with your friends. As we will.”

  “So what happens here?” Mooshie jumped in impatiently.

  “Zelda learns to be a mother and how to love her baby.”

  “The baby you’re taking.”

  “Moosh…”

  “You think your friend is being punished.” The woman had heard this one many times. “You, Zelda, feel like a bad girl.”

  “The worst.”

  “You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. But you can’t allow that to seep into your child and have it come out angry. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Zelda shrugged and the woman’s smile faded slightly.

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “I don’t want to know,” Zelda shouted. “I just want this to be over.”

  The woman sat on the coffee table, tucking a couch cushion under her rear. “This is all natural, sweetheart. The anger, pain. Self-loathing. Why didn’t I tell him to withdraw before climaxing? Why am I a slut? Where is my sense of responsibility?”

  “Which this’ll change?” Mooshie asked sullenly.

  “Always,” the woman said with arch confidence. “As you will learn over the next seven months and sixteen days, every single American child is precious because this is what we face.”

  The room went dark and a screen as wide as the wall edged out. Endless streams of half-naked dirty Allah children kicked soccer balls back and forth until the balls became rifles, firing as the crescent moon and star fluttered over Moscow and Berlin and Paris and London and Rome.

  Zelda stared at the children, smiling, laughing, playing. She hated them, too.

  The lights came back on and the screen retreated into the wall.

  “It didn’t have to be that way,” Mooshie said stonily.

  “Pardon?” The woman finally lost her smile.

  Louder, “They could’ve been beaten.”

  The woman was flustered. “That isn’t the point.”

  Zelda didn’t like the way the woman studied Mooshie. Two brats with pigtails burst into the room and froze, clutching their dolls safely away from Zelda, who was obviously planning on burning all their toys.

  “Darlings, meet Zelda Jones,” the woman said, relieved not to deal with Mooshie. “She’s going to be your Mommy.” The woman considered Zelda with a resigned sigh. “First, we’ll start with your diet. You have a puffy face, obviously too much sugar. That’s now banned from your Lifecard.”

  “You’re not taking away my donuts,” Zelda snarled, scowling at the girls as if they’d be a grudging second choice dessert; the children hid behind a chair.

  The woman laughed. “I love your sense of humor.”

  Mooshie poked the matron in the thigh. “She ain’t kidding, honey.”

  • • • •

  ANNETTE’S POUT COULD ruin a sunrise, Puppy thought as she stomped into their last ever Couples meeting. Except today, the best game he’d pitched since he was twenty-one. Seven innings, only one run, Ty gambling on a diving catch which skipped past to the wall, four hits, two walks and eight strikeouts. Curve, slider, fastball, change, everything clicked. Fans barked themselves hoarse. Eighteen thousand and thirty-two of them, Frecklie had announced proudly.

  Even the Merry Owners were happy, airily dismissing the plumbing bills to re-open bathrooms as part of doing business, though they still didn’t see why there had to be toilet paper in every stall.

  Eighteen thousand and thirty two. And they all came to see him pitch. The hell that it sounded arrogant, selfish, egomaniacal, un-Family like, counter to Grandma’s teachings; who cared?

  He was a star. Fans barked out a bus window on his way over here. Hazel had spent half an hour interviewing him for the Late Sports Show. He just got two sacks of mail from as far away as northern California. Forty-three women mailed in proposals. Another ninety-six just offered sex.

  And there was still no pain. He asked Frecklie why his mother had suddenly acted so kind when she obviously preferred he get hit in the head with a line drive. At first the kid hesitated and Puppy’s mind jumped to a trap where the grandmother, if she really were a grandmother, would stab him in the eyes with her needles next time. My shoulder’s fine, but I can’t see home plate. But Frecklie assured him that his grandmother was very nice, he didn’t understand how his mother turned out this way, and he could only guess that Jesus had something to do with this.

  That was a secret, he insisted, red-faced. So your mother prayed for me? Frecklie had mumbled it didn’t work that way even though he wasn’t sure how it worked since you didn’t see Jesus and nothing ever happened that she asked for anyway. Except it had worked for the Allahs, Puppy added, two men of the world discussing God b
ehind home plate in a deserted stadium.

  That’d freaked out Frecklie a little, mixing Jesus and God and baseball with Allahs. The kid had hesitated again, wanting to say something important, but Dale danced up the steps and into his lap. Puppy went into the clubhouse to give them time to make out. He would definitely make out in his stadium if he weren’t engaged to a ghost.

  What if he slept with just one of his fans? he suddenly thought. That’d only break like three or four adultery laws. It’d been a long time between triples.

  Annette angrily slid into the chair. “Talk to me, Puppy.”

  The guard stirred uneasily. These crazy people were supposed to be done.

  “About what?” Puppy ignored her edge. “My sensational pitching?”

  “Your fiancé and Elias.” Annette tossed her hair in rhythm to her drumming, impatient fingers.

  “What about them?”

  “What about them?” she mocked. “Elias saw her two nights this week.” Annette threw down the hair brush. The guard moved closer.

  “I think, lunatic lady, that Elias saw Dara sing.”

  “Uh-huh. He got home at two this morning.” Annette’s lower lip quivered.

  Puppy finally realized her point. “Honey, they’re not having an affair. Dara’s just a wonderful singer. You should come hear her.”

  “I have my instincts.” Annette windmilled her arms like she was a burning tree with very expensive jewelry.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Stop it, Annette. Elias loves you.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Don’t tempt me. “Dara loves me. You love Elias. I love Dara. It’s like an isosceles triangle.”

  “That’s three sides, idiot. This is four. Add Elias loves me. A square. Or rectangle…”

  “No one cares because nothing’s going on.”

  “Because it would just figure, wouldn’t it?”

  “What?” he said between clenched teeth.

  “That you’d pick a fiancé who’d want mine.”

  Puppy bent her brush handle. “Are you suggesting that in my twisted, devious criminal mind, I found someone solely to screw up your relationship?”

  “Sure seems that way.”

  “You’re more insane than I thought.”

  “I love him, Puppy.” She broke down. “I love him.”

  The guard hovered by the table with a box of tissues, unsure if this was a clever prelude to violence.

  He sighed. “I know. I’ll talk to Dara.”

  “You will?” She brightened.

  “Of course. It’s nothing, but appearances can be appearances. Or something.”

  “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “I do think you’re crazy, but I don’t want you upset.”

  “Thank you.” Annette pricked his thumb with a barrette.

  28

  Every so often, Tomas would omit an unpleasantry from his daily security report: a small protest over the quality of SC foods, an altercation between ‘bots and siblings at a bus stop, or a song whose lyrics were a mite mocking about the HG parks. He couldn’t stand not seeing Grandma smiling, optimistic. This morning reminded him why he did it.

  “So no children were injured?” Grandma asked dully, her makeup not quite so careful.

  Cheng shrugged. “Unless we consider the five BT plants.”

  “They were orphans once, too.”

  “Yes, they were. Then five deaths. The sixth…” his voice trailed off.

  “Is where?” she demanded.

  “We have extensive medical facilities on site.”

  “I want him brought to Lebanon Hospital immediately.”

  “It’s a her, originally from Norway, and that isn’t wise.”

  Grandma ignored Cheng and turned to Tomas. “Do it.”

  Cheng shook his head imperceptibly. “Grandma, it’d get out. The weapon was very much a Miners specialty. Someone will talk.”

  “We can cover,” Tomas said.

  “I don’t want any lies,” Grandma snapped.

  “Then you want the truth?” Cheng exchanged an uneasy look with Stilton.

  “I want nothing said. This, this,” she sputtered, squinting at the report on her lap, “Ase Pedersen had an accident during firearms training. Do it. Now.”

  Grandma waited until Tomas arranged for a medcopter to bring the teenager to Lebanon Hospital; given the girl’s extensive head wounds, he doubted she’d survive. Lenora nodded grimly when Stilton finished.

  “What do the prisoners say?” she asked hoarsely.

  Cheng sighed. “The BTs didn’t take any survivors.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was a fight, ma’am. The traitors were firing SAMs.”

  Her voice grew small. “The BTs made no attempt to rescue the children?”

  Albert squirmed, giving Tomas pleasure. “Apparently that wasn’t an option. Policy was followed.”

  Grandma turned to Tomas. “Is that so?”

  Cheng reddened at the insult, but kept quiet. Stilton nodded. “Since there was no indication that the orphans were taken against their will, there was the assumption that they cooperated.”

  Grandma stared so hard Tomas felt his brain dance. “The children wanted to leave?”

  He hated lying to her. “Of course not. Obviously they were coerced. But the BTs, in the heat of a firefight, weren’t sure.”

  “And the search for the children?”

  Tomas gestured at the folder. “It’s in the…”

  “I know it’s in the goddamn report, Major,” Grandma shouted. Both men flinched at the unusual rage.

  “I’m sure there’ll be some ransom demands,” Cheng jumped in soothingly; Tomas tossed him a grateful look. “Let’s wait.”

  “Let’s wait means you have no idea where they went.”

  Cheng stiffened. “No, Lenora. We have no idea other than this was a sleeper Miners cell.”

  “Because of the orange wigs they left?”

  “And the rifles…”

  “Which they’ve just been hiding for thirty years?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Waiting for?”

  Cheng stared. “Your Story must have triggered this.”

  “Miners don’t march peacefully, Grandma,” Tomas said.

  “But you’re not sure it was the traitors. Or even who they are.”

  Albert shifted slightly. “Who else would they be?”

  Grandma exhaled slowly to indicate this subject was concluded. “Let’s discuss the Son.”

  Tomas glanced up, surprised.

  “Of course I know,” Cheng snapped. “Since your first contact with the Paris Collector a year ago. It’s my job. As it was your job to keep it secret.”

  Tomas tipped his head respectfully.

  “And I still think it’s madness.”

  “Don’t mince words, Albert.” Grandma scowled.

  “Do I ever? He’s a charlatan. A bored pervert. I can show you photos. He’s no different than any of them.”

  Grandma shook her head wearily. “Since he met the Son, let’s ask Tomas what he thinks.”

  They waited for Tomas to form a suitable answer; there was none other than blunt honesty. “I don’t trust him, either, ma’am.”

  “As you’ve said over and over.” Lenora pursed her lips. “It must start somewhere.”

  “They don’t want real peace. This is a ruse to get us to lower our guard.”

  “No. An opportunity to talk.”

  “And you think his father and all the Allah scum will allow this?” Cheng persisted.

  “I don’t know, Albert. I’m hoping that the only disloyalty I need worry about is from the Camels.”

  Cheng flinched visibly. “You know I’ll support whatever you decide. We both will.” He took in Stilton. “But let’s first rebuild our defenses just in case.”

  “With what?” Grandma’s eyes blazed. “To what end? To losing another thirteen million? No.
The world is out there and we need to rejoin it. Someday we will be the world power again. But not blind and stupid like before. And not through dead soldiers. Our hearts and minds will prevail. Our wisdom. Our love.”

  She was crazy, Albert decided sadly. Old and crazy. The HG sunrises, temperature manipulations, fake trees, happy children, peppy police. She bought all her own fantasies. He had tried. He could always remind himself of that. He had tried.

  “What’re the next steps?” Cheng asked.

  She nodded gratefully. “I will meet Abdullah.”

  “We can probably hook up an HG to about a thousand kilometers,” Tomas said.

  “Who said anything about HGs?”

  Stilton smiled shakily. “How else, ma’am?”

  “In person.” Grandma folded her hands in her lap as if deciding on reupholstering the purple couch.

  Tomas and Cheng abandoned any pretense at politeness.

  “That can’t be done,” Stilton said, alarmed.

  “And we can’t possibly protect you,” Albert added quickly.

  “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

  “No.” Stilton angrily swung his head back and forth. “I insist we use holographic contact. This could be a trap.”

  Grandma laughed. “Unlikely. If they hurt me, Albert would launch every nuke we have. Let’s reconvene tomorrow morning with some options. If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got to go sit through two hours of badly done Mozart.”

  Tomas and Cheng walked silently past the skipping and singing children of the vidmurals, stopping by the entrance to the underground conveyor where the First Cousin’s car was parked. Albert indicated Tomas should follow, and they went down the heavily guarded elevator and into the front seat of the tiny car.

  Tomas stretched out his leg, nearly knocking a hole in the glove compartment.

  “Sorry, I prefer a small car.” Albert seemed genuinely apologetic, turning on the rad. Mooshie’s Dark Depths haunted the soft leather interior.

  “Quiet and deep

  My heart is gonna creep

  Into your dark depths

  Take me with you

  But be prepared

  I’m blacker than coal

  And I ain’t got no soul.”