A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  The boys exchanged another concerned look.

  Pablo leaned forward. “Are you in trouble?”

  That was a genius sort of question, she realized.

  “I know you think I’m porky ass.” Zelda glared down their feeble protests. “But this is not all blubber.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a good appetite…” Puppy began.

  “It’s not from eating, is it?” Pablo’s eyes narrowed. Zelda blinked back tears and shook her head. “Is it mine?”

  “Why does everyone ask that?”

  “Everyone?”

  “Who’s everyone?” Puppy persisted.

  “She’s pregnant,” he said with mild disdain.

  “Shit,” Puppy muttered, sitting up straight. “Oh shit, guys.”

  “Don’t give me that look,” Zelda said. “It’s a great honor. Maybe I can have another one someday. It hurts and I didn’t plan it but I’m going to the Parents once a week and I don’t throw up much and I’m kinda relieved and a little happy. Maybe a lot happy.”

  “We’re happy for you, too.” Puppy poked the sullen Pablo.

  “So it’s not mine?” the dentist asked.

  “No. I got it tested.”

  “Diego?” Puppy asked.

  She hesitated, nodding.

  “Who the hell is Diego?” The name was like fried feces in Pablo’s mouth.

  She nearly lost it. “How many more questions do you have?”

  “Until you give us all the answers.”

  Zelda jumped up and showed off her belly to the room. “Two months.” She curtsied at the approving applause and moved her chair and bread to another table of diners before her friends coaxed her back.

  Pablo and Puppy ordered Kansas IPA beers, studying Zelda as if she’d soon fly around the room backwards. She joined them in the silence, figuring the story about Diego, Clary and how Black Tops murdered twenty orphans might be too much for one day.

  “You need a partner at the Parents?” Pablo asked softly.

  “I have someone. But thanks.”

  Pablo ordered another round. “I’m still a licensed medical officer. So if you need any help…”

  “I’ll ask.” She squeezed their hands and ordered the mozzarella en carozzo. No one had an appetite.

  When Zelda got home, charcoaled sketches of Clary were taped to the walls, on top of the stove, over the bathroom sink and tucked in the couch and chair cushions.

  “Buenos noches.” Clary burst out of the bedroom, spinning balletically on her toes. “Clary es una persona muy famosa.”

  Zelda tossed aside her purse.

  “Una persona muy famosa,” Clary repeated, annoyed.

  When Zelda still didn’t get it, Clary impatiently dragged her into the bedroom. They watched the vidnews for a few moments. Zelda got up to leave, but Clary yanked her back onto the bed.

  “Una momento.” She muttered something about loco senorita, then jumped up and down on the bed, applauding. “Clary es una persona muy famosa.”

  A sketch of Clary, complete with the scarred cross on her cheek, moved along the screen, bordered by HELP US FIND THIS MISSING GIRL. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL BLUE SHIRT PRECINCT. THANK YOU.

  Zelda rushed into the bathroom and retched. Clary happily sketched another photo.

  • • • •

  MOOSHIE SQUATTED AT the edge of the dark 167th Street subway platform, then tumbled forward, cushioning herself into a roll several inches from the track. The ground rumbled slightly and, in the tunnel, distant lights of the express spliced the blackness.

  You must’ve landed on your head. Cracked your skull and then the train finished you off. Mooshie crouched, watching the train thunder past, taking the light with it.

  She grabbed the edge of the platform to hoist herself back up. A strong hand clutched her forearm. Mooshie gasped.

  “You could hurt yourself.” Hazel tugged her up; she broke free and stumbled backwards slightly. “That third rail is still alive.”

  Mooshie shifted her weight from right to left, glancing up and down the tracks to determine which way she’d run.

  John laughed at her anxiety and introduced himself. “John Hazel.”

  Mooshie kept her recognition to herself.

  “You do know who I am?”

  She jumped vertically back onto the platform. Hazel whistled admiringly.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Can’t I just hang out here like you do? Quiet. Good place to think.” He threw a can at something scurrying nearby.

  Mooshie headed toward the steps.

  “What, no derisive hair flip, Mooshie?”

  She laughed, stopping. “Who?”

  “The greatest baseball player ever.”

  “You got me mixed up, baby.”

  “Nah.” He shook his head.

  “I sing her songs. I’m also not Paul McCartney or Goodley Alizi.”

  “They weren’t murdered here, either.”

  Lopez waited warily as Hazel approached, holding up his hands innocently.

  “You didn’t much mingle with the fans once you slid downward, Moosh. Okay if I call you that? But when you were the greatest baseball player ever and one of the greatest singers ever, you’d take the subway every day. Your apartment was three blocks away at the Concourse Arms. I used to wait for you every day, in the middle of the boulevard, behind a tree. They hadn’t outlawed autographs yet but I was still too shy. I just wanted a glimpse of the great Mooshie heading to the stadium or off to record an album.”

  He rocked on his artificial leg and began singing, “Blue eyed boy, I’m not your toy. Don’t play with my soul ‘cause I ain’t got one.” Hazel puckered his mouth. “Kicking My Nuts never took off. Don’t get it. The lyrics were so simple and poignant.”

  “Mister Hazel…”

  “John.”

  “I only sing her songs. I’m Dara Dinton. My mother died on this subway which is why…”

  “Your mother died after you, in the chem attack. Along with my whole family,” his voice hardened. “Like I said, you didn’t die here either. They slipped you some biozine in a bottle of vodka you bought two blocks away. You were already drunk so you didn’t notice the seal was broken. You sipped as you walked, not caring anymore about your public persona. They brought you here and tossed your drunk ass under the train. All the crap about killing yourself over guilt for supporting the Miners was bullshit Grandma propaganda to turn an enemy into a tool.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Her mind whirled with memories. Falling down, being carried, she did so much of that at the end. The push, the people, the screams.

  “Yeah, there were screams, Moosh.” He finished her thoughts. “When they found you. Maybe that’s what you remember. And that push in the back well, probably they were sloppy carrying you. Had to be ex-BTs. No one active would violate their oath. They paid a few people who were light on their ethics to swear they saw you jump, fall.”

  Hazel gestured several times. Liars.

  She gestured back, jutting out her chin. You too.

  John shrugged. “Those are the facts as I know them, Moosh. I don’t get why you’re surprised. You’ve come here, what, five, six times since you returned, trying to piece it together. Unless you think you came back to solve this mystery.”

  Mooshie smiled coldly. “You got a theory about that, too, pretty news guy?”

  “I do. You wouldn’t believe me. But I have a couple people who might persuade you. Couple people who hate Grandma, too.”

  “No one hates her like I do,” she rasped.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  She listened for footsteps.

  “I’m alone.” Hazel shrugged.

  “And if I refuse this offer.”

  He sighed wearily. “Why would you, Moosh?”

  34

  Azhar scratched his freshly shaven face and sniffed at the faint yellow air lingering obstinately around the entrance to the massive building.

  “The
line’s over there,” Abdullah said, pointing to about ten people patiently waiting outside a thick door. “Best if we don’t loiter like we’re strangers.”

  Mustafa grunted. He disliked everything about this plan since they’d docked hours ago at a secluded spot in the lower half of the strange semi-populated city where people pressed forward grimly with few smiles or even eye contact. Buses and cars crept along reluctantly, sometimes empty. Abruptly, like a mistake, lights blazed out of a skyscraper, receding futilely into wide swatches of dark streets in some weird checkerboard of life and not life.

  Death, Azhar rubbed at his unfamiliar bare cheek. A place between Heaven and Hell where millions die and don’t know where to go, and those left behind aren’t certain how to continue. If he believed in ghosts he would swear he had seen many. But he’d already wasted his share of complaining on being forced to shave.

  The Son seemed genuinely fascinated, as if inside a living museum. He’d stopped Azhar’s heart a few times already with his recklessness before wandering off to visit the Wall Street area.

  “They must satisfy their greed.” Abdullah had sneered. “That is what they offer most. Turning dirt into gold.”

  By craning his head and walking back and forth in front of a large building with the letters NYSE, he’d attracted the stares of black-uniformed soldiers behind thick brick walls, tank turrets peeking out menacingly. Azhar had tugged him away, but a soldier in a reflective black face mask intercepted them.

  “Papers.” The soldier held out a gloved hand.

  While Azhar silently prayed, Abdullah happily produced their forged documents. “This is our first time, my brother and I.”

  Please be quiet, Azhar pleaded.

  “It is so wonderful to see the vibrancy still alive.”

  The Black Top silently returned the papers and studied Azhar’s.

  “We have an engagement to the north. Which would be the most convenient path?”

  The Black Top ignored Abdullah, instead staring at Azhar. “Where are you from?”

  Oh Mohammed, I beg you allow me to borrow the Son’s tongue for a moment.

  “It says there.” Azhar smiled respectfully. “Geeohja.”

  The Black Top grunted.

  “So many wonderful accents in our wonderful country.” Abdullah bowed slightly. “And what of you, young man? From what part of this great nation do you originate?”

  “Woman,” the voice lashed out, her head tilting left and right before she returned Azhar’s papers, disappointed she had no reason to beat them. Azhar’s knees wobbled.

  Abdullah had talked about that experience all morning, adding to it with thoughts concerning the bus system while engaging a couple of indifferent passengers about the woes of mass transit back in Geeohja, wretched compared to Manhattan. Boring the middle of the bus, Abdullah went to the rear and asked an older woman with stringy gray hair to point out some of the sights.

  Delighted to fill her day with something other than riding the bus, the woman, who introduced herself as Blanche, pleased to meet you Mr. Tekka and Mr. Shymal, described the Greenwich Village as a center of poets and musicians, the Fifth Avenue as a repository of wealthy residences and the Madison Avenue as a hotbed of commerce. Once, she added bitterly. She recalled her youth, which Azhar estimated a hundred years or so ago, and the vitality of the city, especially her succession of female admirers; Azhar was disgusted by the proud perversions.

  How did these people ever lead anyone?

  Somehow they made it here to the famous Empire State Building. The line moved inside, Abdullah admitting goosebumps at this latest American adventure. Azhar again tugged him to the back of the elevator; he would’ve had more luck persuading his eldest son to wear a cross. Abdullah continued on and on about the historic building, annoying everyone who hurried away when they got to the 108th floor.

  The Son grinned; Azhar nodded respect at his ploy. They wandered, unsure which was north. Mustafa leaned on the icy railing, peering at the twinkling distant lights splayed between black pockets, as if giants had set up immense black curtains. He squinted down onto the tiny figures dotting the streets. Once so many millions and now, so few. That is why we are here, to feel guilt. For what? The terrorists did this. That was not my government, not my religion.

  Mustafa sighed. Yes. That is why we are here.

  He realized he was alone and panicked, hurrying around the far corner where the Son leaned against the railing, engaged in another conversation with a stranger.

  Azhar joined him. The small elderly woman pulled back her shawl and extended her hand, smiling.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Lenora.”

  Azhar’s mouth went dry. He bowed deeply at the waist; Grandma chuckled.

  “Perhaps we should keep this casual,” she said.

  Abdullah clasped his shoulder. “He lost his equilibrium along with his beard.”

  Grandma’s eyes twinkled and Azhar felt as if he were luxuriating in a warm bath.

  She winked, her smile slowly fading. “Lovely view, isn’t it? Well, it was more beautiful once, but we’re working on that. Over there is New Jersey. You’ve been downtown and there, across the East River, is Brooklyn and Queens. Both have boisterous work forces. New businesses opening daily.”

  “Manhattan remains behind.”

  “Yes,” Lenora admitted. “But compared to what it was, growing. Sometimes that’s the only useful metric.”

  Abdullah pointed at a cluster of lights. “That is your Bronx?”

  “My Bronx.” Grandma beamed. “It had always been the, well, there’s an old saying, red-haired stepchild.” She smiled at their puzzled frowns. “That means neglected. The murderers didn’t think it was important enough to attack a poor, less educated community.”

  They stared at the Bronx as if expecting the lights to join the conversation.

  “The trip went well?” she finally asked, edging away from the passing tourists.

  “Your sea chart was perfect. Docking codes worked and no one has questioned our papers.”

  Grandma nodded, pleased.

  “But how do you say where we’re from? I pronounced it Geeohja and got a few curious looks.”

  She chuckled again; Azhar felt as if she were scrubbing his scalp with scented shampoo.

  “Close enough. We still don’t get enough visitors from other states for anyone to distinguish accents. But it’s increasing. If you’d gone uptown, north, to 50th Street in the midtown area, you would’ve seen we’re re-opening the famous Radio City Music Hall.”

  Abdullah did a dainty little kick of both legs. Grandma did her own kicks, putting her arm on his shoulder. Azhar was embarrassed.

  “Azhar isn’t sure about our dancing.” Grandma nudged him.

  “He has many virtues,” Abdullah said over his protests, “but artistic insights isn’t one of them.”

  “My dear friend Tomas is like that, too. Shall we?” Grandma tucked the shawl back on and slipped her hands through the crook of their arms.

  The glow of the restaurant sign, Schulmann’s, guided them down a long black street. An old waiter with uncombed white hair warmly greeted Grandma, warily nodding at Azhar and Abdullah as he led them past a few old men by the front door and into a red plastic booth at the rear.

  “The usual, Lenora?”

  “I’m not sure yet, Nathan. But definitely a Cel-Ray for everyone.” She winked knowingly at Abdullah and Azhar, who were peering suspiciously at the bowl of pickles and sour tomatoes on the scuffed black-and-white table.

  “You eat them,” growled Nathan, shoving the bowl into the center and reluctantly laying the menus down.

  “Have I ever brought you bad customers?” Lenora took Nathan’s wrist. “Since 2036, right?”

  “2035.”

  “You sure?”

  “You ordered a cream soda, pastrami on rye and then I nearly kicked you out because you dumped half a bottle of ketchup on it.”

  She leaned forward with a girlish grin. “And w
hy didn’t you?”

  Nathan blushed. “Because you were hot.”

  “Wasn’t I?” Grandma sighed. “We’ll order eventually.”

  “Meaning to leave you alone.”

  “Please.”

  Abdullah tentatively bit the end of a pickle, pleasantly surprised. “I’m not familiar with this food.”

  Mustafa desperately searched the menu for something familiar.

  “Nathan won’t let you leave without trying the matzo ball soup.”

  The Son flinched. “Jew food?”

  “And very good.”

  “They’re my enemy.”

  “So am I.”

  Abdullah smiled slowly. “A lesson contained in a bowl of condiments?”

  “Just a meal.”

  “I don’t believe the word ‘just’ is ever appropriate for you, Grandma.”

  “I’m having the pastrami.” She closed the menu and waved over the impatient Nathan, ordering meat sandwiches and soups all around.

  They sat silently for a moment, sipping Cel-Rays.

  “I’ve never made peace before.” Abdullah finished his drink with relish.

  “Nor have I,” she said dryly.

  “Our terms were fair the first time. You lost.”

  “Now both of us are losing.” She waited for the Son to nod. “I’ll offer you food.”

  “Not this, I hope.”

  “You should only be so fortunate. Bio-agra.”

  “We already have that.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Is that why your people are starving?”

  Abdullah stiffened. “Only where the work is below par.”

  “It’s hard to work when you’re dying of malnutrition. Bio-agra techniques,” she repeated. “Otherwise you’ll never feed the populations. My scientists say the fallout has permanently disfigured the atmosphere flow. Whatever natural foods we grow are a miracle.”

  “We have scientists, too.” Abdullah shrugged, conceding. “And they say the same thing. Fine. All the food we need.”

  “In stages, of course.” She nodded briskly. “The Armistice naval lines must be twenty-five mile territorial waters, the rest, neutral.”

  “You want us surrendering the seas?”

  “We’re talking about free trade.”

  Azhar felt Abdullah tense. “Too soon for that.”