A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “I’m still your father.” Azhar eventually released him and the boy toppled onto the bed.

  “I obey Allah. He loves me.”

  “You stupid little shit. How do you think he dispenses His love?”

  Omar flinched.

  Following Azhar out the door, Abdul scowled disgustedly at his brother and grabbed his pillow, draping the blanket over his shoulder and walking silently down the steps into the living room. He bundled himself on the couch, snacking on pistachio ice cream with his father before collapsing with surprisingly loud snores.

  Azhar fell asleep in the armchair, leg draped over the arm, toes brushing his son’s curly hair, wondering what he believed in.

  30

  Clary managed a few last drops of spit which she rubbed on the man’s caked, white lips. That was it, she was out of saliva. Two days on the dinghy and she had no water left in her body. Even her eyeballs were dry; she shielded herself from the faint late sun.

  The man moaned. At least he wasn’t dead yet. How was she not dead? The bullets had torn into the tarpaulin, missing her on all sides. When they were done shooting, she’d waited a long time before crawling out onto the deck of the sinking ship. She kicked a few of the bodies to see if anyone was alive, but if they were, it was just barely and what could she do for them anyway.

  She had to get off the ship and somehow, in the way she was somehow alive, one of the rubber boats was still floating. She hopped over the bodies and started down the side when the man moaned again in English.

  What could she do for him? Except he was a sailor and maybe he’d know how to get the boat somewhere. Clary had dragged the man, bleeding from his stomach, along the deck, stopping to clear a path by shoving aside the dead orphans. The man helped a little, pushing along on a knee and an elbow, but it was really all her.

  Getting into the rubber boat was something else. She wrapped her arm around his waist and tried lowering them together, but her hand slipped and they fell into the boat, where she lost her right shoe.

  He’d nearly rolled into the ocean and she thought about letting him sink; she could probably figure out which way to go. But he had such a sad look. As they floated away from the disappearing ship, Clary pulled out an oar, stuck to a dead boy’s leg, and began paddling.

  The man shook his head and pointed toward the setting sun, giving a direction. West. He had a nice smile, kind of like her cousin Pedro. Whatever happened to him, she wondered. Maybe Pedro was also wondering whatever happened to her. What really ever happened to anyone she knew.

  When Clary got tired of paddling, they drifted. The sailor tried helping but he was pretty bad. They went in a circle once and they both laughed. That’s when she worried she would die because you shouldn’t laugh at a time like that. Maybe because they had no water or food and her mind was grubby and her clothes were ripped and wet and stained with his blood and she couldn’t stop shivering. That’s when he gave her his thin jacket.

  She tried fixing his wound, thinking about what the Allah nurse did at the orphanage, but she had no medicine and knew better than to use sea water and besides, every time she touched his stomach he groaned, which scared her. Better just let him go quietly to Jesus. She didn’t know if she could eat him. Maybe if she had a fire but they were in the boat and how would she cut off his flesh anyway. Maybe if she somehow sharpened the oar, but she needed it to row.

  She kept paddling until her shoulders screamed, trying to remember a song to sing but she couldn’t; they landed at this beach. She’d dragged him to the tree line and then passed out. It was getting dark and the man gurgled and moaned, frightening her. She wanted to run but where and it didn’t seem really right to leave before he died.

  He tugged on her arm.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  “Si.” She had to say something.

  He reached into his pocket and handed her a small black box. Her mother had lots of these with beautiful rings and necklaces and bracelets. She was supposed to get them when she was confirmed. But Jesus had gone somewhere else.

  Clary took the box and smiled. The sailor found a pencil and a damp piece of paper. He scribbled an address, shoving that at her.

  Address, box. “Si.”

  The sailor used his right hand as a mountain to show a big belly. She frowned. He pretended he was rocking a baby and she nodded.

  He smiled weakly, gurgled, this time with blood dripping out of his mouth. He coughed and closed his eyes.

  Clary sat with him for a few minutes until his soul went to Heaven. She kicked away her left shoe, pulled off the man’s shirt and ripped long shreds. She yanked off his shoes, shoved the fabric inside and laced up his sneakers. They almost fit, she thought proudly. She should’ve taken one of the dead orphans’ shoes, but she could only do so much.

  She rolled him on his back and folded his arms; she’d seen her uncle in a coffin. Clary made sure the man’s eyes were closed. She ran down to the beach, testing the sneakers, and returned with a handful of water; she wiped away some of the caked white from his lips. Clary said a prayer, crossed herself and hurried toward the trees.

  She walked for a long time in the dark next to the tall trees. No cars or people passed. She almost fell asleep but it was cold and she made herself keep walking, otherwise she’d die. Clary remembered a song from the orphanage, “Grandma morte, estamos felices,” and when her mouth hurt from thirst, she just hummed but had to stop because her throat hurt.

  Near a clearing, a house blinked Burt’s Motel in red lights. She squealed softly at recognizing el motel; she didn’t care if none of the other words she’d seen along the road were familiar, because none of the signs were in Arabic. That’s all that mattered.

  A big man with a moustache stared from the open door.

  “Yes?”

  She hadn’t figured out what she’d say. If all the signs were in English then they probably didn’t speak Spanish. And how would she explain herself. With all the bullets and dead people, it was probably better not to tell the truth. Always was. Clary leaned weakly against the doorframe. She was so tired and thirsty and hungry.

  The man kneeled and a woman with gray hair looked over his shoulder. She gasped.

  When Clary woke, she was lying on a cot with a washcloth on her forehead. She fell onto the floor and crawled into the corner, alert and scared.

  “Well what are you doing?” The woman laid a tray of soup and bread on the coffee table. “Come on, honey, don’t be frightened. You been sleeping a while and it’s time to eat. What’s that, a growl? Come on.”

  Clary didn’t trust the smile. She really didn’t trust any smiles. She backed away, remembering how she got here. Stupido. Run.

  She staggered and fell to her knees. The woman helped her back on the couch, rubbing her forehead.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The woman sat her down firmly as if there was no way Clary was getting up without permission. “Now you eat.”

  She sniffed at the food and the woman clucked her tongue. Finally Clary took a bite. She had two bowls, all the bread and was working on some cookies when the man with the moustache came into the room.

  “How is she?” he asked gruffly.

  “Hungry.” The woman rolled her eyes. “Thirsty, too. I’ll get you more, honey.”

  While the woman went into the kitchen, Clary glared at the man in case he had any ideas about touching her. It hadn’t worked in the orphanage, but maybe America was different.

  “What’s your name, girl?” the man asked.

  Clary gripped the soup spoon and decided if he came near, she’d jam the handle into his eye.

  “Don’t you talk?” he frowned.

  “Not if you ask like that, Burt.” The woman returned with some cheese, which Clary quickly finished. Clary blushed, puzzled by the woman staring at her cheek. America was a Crusader nation. Why did she look so upset by the cross?

  The man leaned against the wall, staring suspiciously, while the woman touched Clar
y’s face.

  “How’d you get the scar, honey?” she asked.

  “Must be a believer,” Burt said. “Jesus Christey?”

  The woman shushed him, embarrassed. “Where do you live?”

  She had to say something, but knew speaking Spanish would be stupid.

  “Think she’s from the fool school?”

  “I don’t know. They treat them well, but…” She fussed with Clary’s tangled hair, sighing at her clothes, bruises.

  “I don’t want to get mixed up in this, Grace.” He pointed at Clary’s scar.

  “Should we send her out in the middle of the night?”

  “Let the police handle this.”

  Clary understood police. She pointed to her throat, waving her hands sadly.

  “She can’t talk,” Grace said.

  “I got it,” Burt answered. “But she still comes from somewhere they do things like that.”

  Grace patted Clary’s arm. “Let her sleep here tonight and we’ll figure it all out in the morning.”

  Clary nervously shoved her hands into her pockets.

  Burt suddenly leaned over. “What are you hiding, little girl?”

  She bared her teeth, hissing softly.

  “Lemme see.”

  She bit his forearm. He finally shook free with a pained howl and raised his fist. Grace pulled him away.

  “Let her be,” she snapped. “Poor thing’s all messed up.”

  “That’s why she shouldn’t be here.” Burt wiped away a trickle of blood.

  “She’s staying the night, Burt.”

  “Not until I see what she’s hiding,” he whined. “Could be a goddamn knife or religious spell or something.”

  Grace stared questioningly at Clary. “Show me what you got, honey. I’ll give it back.”

  Sighing, Clary started putting the sneakers back on.

  “And those ain’t a child’s shoes,” Burt added menacingly.

  “Girl, I’m talking to you.” The woman wasn’t so nice anymore. “You’re not going anywhere until you show us what you got or we’re calling the police.”

  She couldn’t have police. She didn’t like this ugly woman and this mean man who wanted to touch her. She handed over the jewelry box. The people’s eyes went wide when they saw the diamond ring.

  “Did I tell you?” Burt triumphantly held up the ring toward Grace. “Where’d you steal this?”

  Her heart pounded. Americans were bad, too. The ring wasn’t theirs. Wasn’t hers either, but the sailor had given her the address of the fat lady and a baby.

  “Mama,” she shouted. “Mi Mama, mi mama.”

  She cried hysterically and the woman hugged her.

  “Damn you, Burt Winston, it’s the child’s mother’s ring.”

  “For Grandma’s sakes, she’s a thief.”

  “Does she look like a thief?”

  Clary lowered her eyes, sobbing silently. Grace gave her back the ring while Burt watched skeptically.

  “It’s okay, honey. Put your mother’s ring away.” The woman led her into a small office and made up the cot with clean sheets and a blanket, then turned out the lights.

  “Sleep well. No one’s going to bother you.”

  The door locked. Clary slid into the bed, trying to remember the last time she slept on anything clean. She stunk and apologized to the sheets.

  When Grace opened the office at eight the next morning, the window was open and the little girl was gone, along with the cigar box of petty cash from the pried-open top drawer.

  “Burt!” she screamed.

  • • • •

  KATRINA STIRRED HER coffee around and around, sitting across from Zelda at the rear of the empty veggie burger cafe a few blocks from their office. “What’re you going to do?”

  “I asked myself that a million times in the past couple days. Like I have lots of choices?”

  Katrina leaned forward. “You do.”

  “Wish I saw them. Put up with the Parents. Let them take it. Find my life again.”

  “You won’t. You’re never the same.” She waited until the waitress refilled their coffee before continuing, “You think it’s over but it’s not. The baby’s always inside. You’re always reminded. You see families with children and you remember. All the bullshit they teach, finding your inner mother, it doesn’t last. I hated the girls they gave me as pretend children.”

  “I wonder if we had the same ones? Pigtails.”

  Katrina laughed. “They all have pigtails. No. You’re forever changed, Zelda. That’s why I’m a bitch.”

  Zelda figured a little job security demanded she protest, even half-assed. “Who isn’t?”

  Katrina shifted her chair closer. “I took that other choice.”

  She felt a little queasy, which kept her big mouth shut for once.

  “I never carried to term, Zelda. I would’ve killed myself. I was all alone, no family, the guy went screaming when I told him. I’d just started out my career and you know, for all the talk about no discrimination against unwed mothers, it’s there. The looks, shame, what’s wrong with you, can’t you do your part, don’t you know we’re surrounded.” Katrina shook her head. “A friend of mine knew a doctor who knew a doctor. I went in the afternoon, called in sick the next day, and was fine.”

  Zelda really wished she had some pie. Any flavor. “They just…”

  “Yes. As easy as getting pregnant without the fun.”

  She’d only had fun with half of them. Three actually. What percentage was three sevenths? She thought of Diego, blinking back tears. “How’d you explain?”

  Katrina pursed her lips. “An accident. It’s easier than you think. They really don’t want to prosecute women. It’s a big bluff.”

  Zelda thought of all the street posters of pregnant women surrounded by adoring men and women. “But it’s murder. Treason.”

  “And making you carry a baby which they’re taking away is cruelty, torture. If Grandma loves us, why make us suffer? It’s not like we used birth control. That would be treason. But we got pregnant. We let that happen and then they take away our child because we don’t have a partner. There are no words for that.”

  Katrina edged closer; they could’ve been two lovers stealing a moment. “You say you fell. Then they file a report. You’re watched for a while, for what, I don’t know. Maybe that you’re going to convince other women maybe.”

  “Aren’t you doing that now?” Zelda asked quietly.

  “No,” Katrina touched her hand. “I’m helping a friend.”

  • • • •

  MAISE CHU KEPT sighing as she stuck needles into his shoulder and back. Puppy tried relaxing, but he was scared and couldn’t stop tapping his toes and drumming his fingers; finally she squished the back of his neck into the examining table. He lay still for a moment, concentrating on the flickering candles, but he got a headache. He tried calling out to Frecklie in the waiting room, but great-grandma’s wrinkled steel fingers crushed his lips together. Silence was an enemy because it allowed him to think.

  The numbness in his right fingers provided brief elation from the pricking pricking pricking until he realized he hadn’t experienced numbness before and this time it wasn’t going away.

  He wiggled his fingers, swimming away from the panic. “I can’t feel. Numb.”

  Maise smiled the blissfulness of someone who knows better.

  “Frecklie,” he shouted and the boy popped his head in the doorway, alarmed. “I can’t feel my fingers.”

  Frecklie pointed to Puppy’s fingers and his great-grandmother shrugged and jabbed another needle into his lower back, chattering away with a wistful air.

  “What’d she say?”

  “I don’t speak Chinese.”

  “Does she gesture?”

  The teen sighed helplessly. “She’s really old. I think before there was gesturing and shorthand. Or maybe language.”

  Puppy laid his forehead on the examining table. Now his entire right arm went numb, w
hich he explained to Frecklie in a calmly hysterical tone, which the boy related to Maise by dropping his arm lifelessly.

  The old woman nodded sagely and left the room.

  Frecklie held his hand until she returned and pulled out the needles. Feeling returned to his arm, buoying his spirits. Puppy spun his right arm in an arc; no pain. Wondrous wide movement. Curveball, sliders, sinking fast ball, bring it on.

  “Thank you, Great-Grandma.” Frecklie picked up on his relief. Puppy also bowed.

  Great-Grandma made a sad face and shook her head.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Puppy asked him.

  “I don’t know.” Frecklie held his palms up questioningly.

  Great-Grandma stuck her thumb down.

  “Is this some Chinese shorthand?” Puppy asked.

  “I told you I don’t speak Chinese.”

  “She’s not talking, Frecklie.”

  Puppy took Maise’s gnarled hands. “Ma’am, is my shoulder okay?”

  Maise touched his shoulder and stuck her thumb down again, pursing her lips sadly.

  “I think that’s a no,” Frecklie said.

  “Oh, I didn’t pick up on that.”

  Puppy mimed throwing, still no pain, and gave a thumb’s up, grinning as if his sheer hopeful joy would make everything better. Maise twisted his thumb downward, eyes glistening. She kept shaking her head over and over.

  Just to make sure they understood, Maise also twisted Frecklie’s thumb downward.

  • • • •

  DALE NUDGED HIM with her yellow painted big toe.

  “Are you going to read all night?”

  “Just until we have sex again.” Frecklie turned the page of the Hall of Fame book.

  “So you’re just screwing me in between reading the baseball book?”

  Frecklie nodded, violating rule number one of Loving Dale: Never Ignore Her. Dale jabbed her sharp elbow into his rib. Sometimes she did this with real intent. Tonight he wasn’t sure and he didn’t have the patience. Puppy had been so upset he couldn’t talk. Or wouldn’t talk. Maybe he just needed to talk to someone his own age. Someone he thought could really help.