“As a goal then.”
“Let’s keep it vague.”
“Within three years.”
“Five.”
“Four,” she said.
“Four and we keep fifteen mile territorial waters.”
“Four and twenty miles.”
They exchanged nods. The Son rolled a sour tomato. “Anything else?”
Grandma waited for Nathan to serve the three soups. He wouldn’t leave until he was satisfied by their response.
“It’s good.” Azhar beamed.
“Why would you think it wasn’t?” The waiter grumbled his way behind the counter.
“Dear, trying eating the matzo ball along with the soup.” Grandma demonstrated, leaving Azhar to practice slicing the monstrous ball without spilling the broth. “You allow any non-Muslims to leave. We’ll take them in.”
Abdullah pulled a face. “There’s tens of millions.”
“Hopefully more,” Grandma said angrily. “The camps were closed, as your father promised, correct?”
“I cannot speak for my father’s promises,” he said harshly. “But I have no information that any Crusader…Christian executions continued. The Jews, well, they are gone.”
Grandma’s eyes fluttered around the restaurant. “Then there should be hundreds of millions of Christians in Europe and Africa, as well as South America.”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “But probably.”
Azhar caught Abdullah’s hesitation, but remained silent. This was not his place to carve up the world. He had enough trouble with this slippery matzoh ball.
“It’ll be thought that as soon as all your people are out, you’ll have no compunction about striking,” the Son said.
She nodded. “I have some who’d advise that. We both have people who mistrust.”
Abdullah nudged aside the untouched soup. “Quotas and small children to begin.”
“Children and old people.”
“Small quotas.”
“How many?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“I need a sense of some figure.”
“You ask something which cuts to the core of our suspicions.”
“Yes, losing all those hostages will be unsettling.”
Abdullah glared. “You abandoned them, Grandma. You chose surrender.”
“Rather than mutual annihilation,” she said softly.
“Spare me your piety. I hear enough human interpretations of how Allah wants us to behave.”
“And I hear enough of how I’m supposed to behave,” she flared, turning toward Azhar. “What do you think, Captain?”
Azhar kept his eyes lowered. “The Jew soup is tasty.”
“You know I didn’t mean that,” she whispered; the feeling of him splashing about in the warm bath resumed.
“I think we should return what isn’t ours and regain what is.” He glanced at Abdullah, who nodded in sudden respect.
“I believe you just asserted the fundamental principles of war and peace, Azhar,” Grandma looked at Abdullah. “An agreement in principle to seek the resettlement of foreign nationals.”
The Son wouldn’t budge. “That implies you have any of our people. I think you killed the last…”
“Are we going to do this all night?” Grandma snapped.
He glanced at Azhar and shook his head. “The structured return of Christians and reparations for the murder of Muslims.”
“A new emigration policy for Christians and review of Muslim repatriation claims. No blame either way.”
He nodded slowly. “And?”
“You refer to this as a peace treaty.”
“I can’t,” he snapped. “That strips away our original victory of all its glory. We lost thirty-seven million. They won’t be disgraced.”
She shrugged. “How about a pan-Atlantic trade agreement. Goods and people.”
Abdullah grinned, realizing Grandma had planned that response. “I feel you’re picking my pockets, as you might say.”
Lenora gestured at the slurping Azhar. “He won’t let that happen.”
The two leaders laughed wearily at the baffled Captain. Finally Abdullah asked, “Now what?”
Grandma waved over Nathan, who set down the sandwiches, giving a brief guided tour of the differences among corned beef, pastrami and brisket. He proudly added a pile of round fried potatoes.
“Latkes,” Nathan said gravely. “Use either the sour cream or apple sauce.”
Abdullah bit carefully into the brisket, while Mustafa happily made his way through the corned beef, dumping apple sauce and sour cream onto his potatoes. By the counter, Nathan grumbled satisfaction.
“How long for you to sell in this agreement?” Grandma layered a spoonful of mustard onto her meat.
“I have to get everyone together.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Leaders like me.”
“That’s not good enough. Who are they?”
Abdullah hesitated, before conceding. “Ali Koury in France. Omar Mouluf in Germany. Ibrahim Safar in Palestine. Ismael Shalhoub in Kenya.”
Grandma’ face tightened. “Two generals, a colonel and a vice-admiral. That’s it?”
“All I can freely name.”
“But there’s more?” Abdullah nodded. “More committed or more you can approach.”
“Both.” The Son sneered. “We control over two million men in arms along with the Channel fleet.”
“The Kaddafy Brigade in Paris alone controls five million and they border Mouluf…”
“The Parisian Army’s a shell,” he caught himself. “I can’t say more, Grandma. Trust only goes so far.”
“Screw trust. This is about self-interest.”
Abdullah smiled coldly. “Always. These men are with me. Theirs are with me.”
“I need proof.”
He thought for a moment. “Give me time when I return. I’ll send word through the Collector.”
“He’s compromised. Only use them for misinformation. I’ll have a new means of communication shortly. And your father?”
“I’ll take care of him.”
“Assassination is not a good way to start a peace.”
“Perhaps it won’t be necessary. But if so.” He shrugged carelessly. “And you?”
“No one I can’t handle.” She chewed the sandwich, murmuring loud approval toward the pleased Nathan. “We can tape the joint spot later tonight.”
“Tonight? I haven’t prepared anything.”
“I think you’ve spent your life preparing for this, Abdullah.”
He smiled faintly. “Can this work, Grandma?”
She pressed a napkin to her lips. “There was a great leader from the past century, Golda Meir, perhaps you heard of her? No? Oh, I’m surprised. Anyway, Meir said that peace will come, she being Israeli, when the Arabs love their children more than they hate us.”
The Son’s hand trembled slightly with anger. “Another metaphor, Lenora?”
“Yes. For both our people.”
• • • •
BETH PRESSED THROUGH the thick crowd swallowing up the entrance to the stadium, but she didn’t find Ruben or recognize any of his friends. She could’ve waited for him to come home, but every night he’d gone straight to Dale’s and then back here; there’d been no messages from the school so somehow he was juggling education between work and sex. Beth smiled impishly; Dale’s a sweet kid. Ruben needed someone like her, a little more wired so he could learn limits.
She quickly examined herself in the glass door of the Yankee Clubhouse. As best as she could tell against the background of fans buying her Forgiveness t-shirts, this black dress and white blouse worked. Damn hair didn’t; she scolded the thin spikes reaching up like stalks.
A husky man smiled admiringly. Beth pulled a face, scanning the long corridor one last time and walking down the lower field boxes to the railing. The Yankees spilled lazily all over the field, hitting and throwing and running and stretching.
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Puppy finally acknowledged her silent waves. As he hurried over, about a dozen young men and women poured down the aisle, barking and shouting his name. He happily shook hands, posed for pictures and made small talk in that modest conceited way as the fans drifted away, glazed like they’d spent a minute with St. Peter.
“Hey, how are you?”
She let him kiss her cheek. “Fine. Have you seen my son?”
“No. Is something wrong?”
“Should there be?”
“You look worried.”
She frowned. “That’s just my face.”
“And a beautiful face it is.”
Beth rolled her eyes and pulled the white Yankees and blue Cubs banners out of her bag. “I made these for Ruben. I modeled them from that stadium book of yours. Must you look so surprised?”
“Sorry. I’m still getting used to your tender side.” Puppy hopped over the railing. “How about we put them up?”
It took them about fifteen minutes to get to the upper deck in left field. Beth frowned, baffled by how tiny the players looked.
“Why would anyone sit up here?”
Puppy clomped awkwardly behind in his spikes. “It has a certain rugged appeal. Folks who sit here and in the bleachers take pride in being far away. Traditions are traditions. Even when forgotten.”
“But don’t you want to see the game more clearly? Or is that also your tradition?”
He winked at a couple kissing in the next section. Beth sighed as if he were a child and held up the banners. “Where do these go?”
Puppy pointed at the white brocade at the very top of the stadium. She blanched.
“My idiot son was going to climb up there?”
“I don’t think we have any ladders.”
Puppy held out his hand. Instead, she tossed him her handbag and scampered up the steps, tucking the banners into her waistband. At the top row, Beth jumped with arms outstretched, grabbing onto the brocade and swinging like a chimp to the very corner of the ballpark. She easily climbed to the top and wedged the banners onto the flagpoles, glancing around uneasily as the winds whipped up. She leaned back slightly to see if they were straight, swinging back in the other direction and rejoining the astonished Puppy.
“Have you climbed many stadiums, Ms. Rivera?”
“My first.” She slung the handbag back over her shoulder.
“Seriously, Beth. Where’d you learn that?”
“Life’s a remarkable teacher.”
He stopped her from passing him on the steps. “That’s real training.”
“I guess it is.”
“Were you a gymnast?” Beth nodded slowly. “Or maybe not.”
“If you’re answering your own questions, I don’t think you need me.”
Puppy gripped her strong bicep. “Did you learn that at 610 Tremont or 2001 Clay?”
Beth reddened, but didn’t answer.
“My lesson was on Clay. First and last time my father paid real attention to me. He insisted I go up and down the brick walls on the back of the building.” He tightened his grip. “Shouting in that drunk semi-puke voice of his that everyone had to pass the test. Be a spider, he yelled when I kept slipping off. Be a spider, he kicked me a few times in the head…”
“That explains a lot…”
“But I couldn’t do it. Even with the grooves onto the bricks from all the kids whose mothers and fathers felt it their DV duty to humiliate their children and remind them why they would have to climb extra hard in life…” Puppy spun Beth around. “…to wash away the Miners in our blood. Which Vet camp did you go to?”
She calmly met his stare. “Lawrenceville. Two weeks. I took it up again after my husband died. Late at night, practicing climbing up and down near my old church.”
“You still practice?”
Beth’s eyes narrowed. “No. But I still have faith.”
“In what?”
“That I can climb any damn building when the time comes.”
She smiled vaguely. Puppy suddenly grabbed her shoulders and pressed his mouth onto her lips, but Beth quickly turned. He breathed into her cheek, as cold as the building his father made him climb.
“I have to go.” She patted his shoulder. “Tell Ruben I’ll kill him if he ever climbs near those flags.”
• • • •
BETH DISDAINFULLY SIZED up the squeaky-faced little girls pressed into the couch. Let me hang up your coat, ma’am, who’d like cookies, may we have some tea?
“What’re your names again?” she asked.
“I think that’s for the Mommy to remember,” the woman said sternly.
Zelda squirmed in the chair in the far corner.
“The Mommy gives them names?” Beth asked.
“Goodness gracious, no. They’re not pets.” The woman looked horrified.
“Amy and Amelie,” Zelda said.
“What’re your real names?” Beth persisted.
“Ms. Rivera, that’s not important.”
Amy dismissed Beth as if she were dust, smiling at Zelda. “Where’s that lovely man Diego?”
“Yes, Diego. We liked him,” Amelie chimed in.
“A thoughtful person,” the woman nodded gravely.
Beth started answering, but Zelda waved her off. “He died. That’s why he’s not here.”
The girls glared at Zelda as if she’d murdered Diego along with causing her mother’s suicide.
“What kind of accident?” Amy asked in a low, suspicious tone.
“What’s it matter?”
“So it’s a secret?” Amelie asked.
“No, it’s not a secret. He was on a boat. He drowned. Anything else?”
The funeral in Diego’s apartment yesterday had been sparsely attended with only immediate family, his mother and two sisters. Afterwards, Zelda had met the oldest one, Maria, at a bench overlooking the Harlem River, where she cautiously showed the letter from Shipmate Sails, the parent corporation, expressing their deepest apologies at the loss of Diego Garcia and Captain Jey Lee in a still unexplained accident. The letter had forwarded a new Lifecard containing payment for Diego’s funeral along with two months severance pay.
Zelda rubbed her stomach. “This is Diego’s baby.”
“I know.” Maria’s eyes welled. “I helped him pick out the ring. Why don’t you wear it?”
She had been tempted. “It’s illegal. Mockery of marriage and all that to wear an engagement ring when you’ve never been formally engaged.”
Maria spit into the river. Zelda joined her.
Zelda slowly came back into the room as Beth flared her nostrils in encouragement. They’d rehearsed this all the way over. Zelda took a deep breath.
“That’s why I want to be able to name my baby Diego.”
“I thought you didn’t know the father?”
“I’m sure now.”
The woman happily clasped her hands. “Splendid. Oh splendid. This is an enormous step forward as a mother. We just need the DNA tests.”
“There are none since he’s dead.”
The woman quieted Amy and Amelie’s singing and dancing around the couch. “You can’t name a child after the father unless it’s proven the father is the father.”
Zelda unbuttoned her blousy top. The woman and the little girls craned their necks as if a vidmovie were beginning.
DIEGO AND MY MOM was evenly stitched in purple letters on her gold undershirt. The woman gasped.
“That’s unacceptable.”
“Chill down. It’s not like it’s formal, which would bind the adoptive parents. The name’s only for use here. Like Amy and Amelie.”
The children cowered behind the couch cushions.
“I’ve never heard of this before,” the woman sputtered.
“You could file a complaint,” Beth said.
“I certainly will.”
“Though I guess we can ask for a sample of Diego’s DNA.” Zelda waddled toward the woman. “Only they haven’t found the body. We can as
k why. I’m going to bet you a few of your stinky cookies that Shipmate Sails, the company who owned the boats, won’t like that. I’m going to bet a few of your stinky brownies that some other people, important people, very important people, might not like that either, and they might wonder why you’re torturing a pregnant woman whose partner willingly came to a session and then later died. A partner who wanted to marry her.” Zelda slipped on the engagement ring. “A woman going by the rules who only wants to remember her lover as she does everything necessary to bring another American child into Grandma’s House.”
The woman trembled.
“Lizzie,” one of the little girls suddenly called out.
“And my real name’s Pam,” the other one said.
They stuck out their tongues at the sullen woman.
For the rest of the hour, the kids played Zelda’s game, imagining little Diego running around knocking over plates and glasses and lamps. Beth was little Diego, taking great relish in shattering a mug and sending the woman into another room.
The woman eventually returned, airily dismissing the girls and insisting the wary Beth also wait outside. Zelda sat on the couch.
How do you feel? The woman gestured.
Fine.
It didn’t bother you?
About little Diego? No. My idea.
But it wasn’t little Diego.
“I know it’s not real. All make believe. I got it. But I’m good at making make believe real.”
“You saw your baby then?”
“Yes. I saw him at five. I skipped over the infant part since that grosses me out. The pooping and everything.”
“And?”
“And, and…What do you want me to say for your report?”
“This isn’t for the report, Zelda. I don’t want you slashing open your stomach in a month.”
“Women do that?”
The woman sighed. “And Ms. Rivera…”
“Is my friend. She can be surly, but she’s my partner here.”
“Good. You need friends.”
Zelda stared. “Like you?”
“I’m not your friend, Zelda. In seven months I’ll never see you again.” She folded her hands in her lap. “So tell me how much this all hurts, pretending Diego is running around calling you Mommy.”
“More than you can imagine. Isn’t that the point? There are no Parents Houses for second time unwed mothers, right?”
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