A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

THE THIRD GRADE class huddled horrified in the far corner beneath the poster of Grandma, eyes lifted defiantly. BUILD ON LOVE. Zelda went to join them, but the children hurried into another corner, eluding her no matter what angle she took, no matter how many crayons she threw, no matter how many chairs she kicked over.

  Shaking her head sadly, the teacher took Zelda’s hand and calmly led her into the principal’s office. Zelda couldn’t remember either’s name. Her teacher had the gray hair which all educators had during the war, dyed down to the roots in the short style of the period. You couldn’t hide anything in clipped hair. It was 2070. November 18, 2070. She squinted at the calendar in the principal’s office, confused because the name on the door was blocked out, like boobies in the vidmovie Pablo had once shown her.

  Zelda grew woozy as the pill she’d curled under her tongue slowly disintegrated.

  The principal was Mrs. Rogers, of course. She hated Mrs. Rogers. The principal Mrs. Rogers pressed down Zelda’s drawing onto the desk as if making an imprint. She asked if that was Zelda’s drawing and she’d answered why else would I put my name on it. Mrs. Rogers persisted and asked if Zelda ever put her name on anything belonging to someone else and Zelda had said that was dishonest and DVs don’t lie.

  Isn’t this a lie? The principal sighed. A drawing of dead soldiers wrapped in a flag isn’t true. But, Zelda sputtered, soldiers had died. Mrs. Rogers looked very sad, that expression of giving up on you which most people in the DV got at one time or another. Teachers weren’t supposed to have that look. They were your friends, sometimes your only friends other than your real friends. They were supposed to protect you and do everything they could to help you learn and make you see truth so you could be honest.

  Why? Mrs. Roger asked. Of all the drawings, why this one?

  The principal had smiled; Zelda wasn’t fooled. She was trying to get something out of her like this kindly prison visitor on the chair in the cell. Not a bad cell, Zelda tried remembering before the pill and the VR and couldn’t. Maybe because she was back in 2070 and explaining when things came into her head she just had to draw them. Mrs. Rogers asked what other things came into her head. Zelda said her head was empty. The principal leaned forward and asked if other things like dead soldiers wrapped in a flag came into her head would she draw them or would she maybe think what effect that had on other people when Grandma and the rest of America were fighting so hard.

  Don’t you want to fight hard, too? Zelda thought of the soldiers in their fake legs and fake arms begging in the DV.

  “But didn’t you keep drawing whatever you wanted?” The kindly prison visitor asked softly somewhere beyond the Virtual Reality world. “Don’t you think you should stop?”

  Zelda wanted to yank off the plugs on her eyelids, but her hands were fastened to the chair.

  “Look where it’s gotten you, dear.”

  I’m fine, her mouth made the words, but she didn’t hear them.

  “You’ve achieved a great deal, Zelda. I don’t want to act as if you haven’t. You’ve taught, made a success in business and will bear a child. That is remarkable. How could you do all that if you weren’t honest?”

  Am honest, her lips were stuck.

  “Which makes no sense. Dishonest people don’t succeed unless you think the entire system is wrong. Do you think that?”

  Yes, Zelda’s nose sort of moved near her forehead.

  “Certainly not. You’re a wonderful person who has overcome a natural inclination fostered by your parents to break the rules. You fought back. You’re a champion. Now you have another stumble where someone has put you in a bad spot. If you tell us who, we can help you and the girl. You’ll resume your life. This isn’t terrible. You’ve made mistakes before and overcome them.”

  Now her nose dribbled onto her cheek.

  “It’s the little girl. You’re worried about her. Who wouldn’t? That shows what sort of person you are. Taking in a little thing and feeding her. Obviously you transferred the love for your baby to the girl. You must give up your baby and so you decide in your head to adopt the orphan. My oh my, what kind of society wouldn’t understand? We’d be upset if you had turned the girl away.”

  “Diego.” Zelda found her tongue hiding behind her teeth.

  “Is that who helped you? Is that the father?”

  “Yes,” she said hoarsely.

  “Where is he?”

  Zelda tipped over and fell. The kindly prison visitor undid the straps.

  “Diego. Where is he?”

  “Grandma killed him,” Zelda hissed.

  • • • •

  THE A21 ELECTRICIAN robot sneered at the DVs clinging onto the bottom of the brocades in left field. Frecklie held his breath as an old guy climbed a little too close to the banners.

  “They using Rifa 11 lighting?” the ‘bot grumbled.

  “Whatever you requested,” Frecklie answered.

  “What I requested was my people installing this.”

  Frecklie shrugged helplessly. “This was a direct order from Third Cousin Kenuda. You know who he is…”

  “All the same to me,” growled the ‘bot. “Like we’re all the same to you.”

  “A thought like that is against the law.”

  “So’s humans doing work reserved for us.” The A21’s eyes rotated in two different directions. “My gang is checking their work after.” He indicated the bored ‘bots sitting in the front row of the upper deck, tossing peanut shells over the railing.

  “Whatever you requested.” Frecklie smiled politely.

  “Stop making litter,” the A21 yelled at his gang. “I need to check out the control room.”

  Frecklie led the ‘bot past the stations of battery powered lamps installed every twenty feet. If the lights went, they’d need a path for the crowd to leave. He’d also ordered twenty thousand candles which he’d stored in the toilets throughout the park. He figured it was best not to tell Dale about his backup plan.

  Dale stared hard at the A21, wishing she had an acetylene torch.

  “He better not touch anything.” She watched the ‘bot peek behind the large grimy console in the control room.

  “He’s got to do his job.”

  “Not if he screws up mine. Hey, tin can.”

  Frecklie groaned. The glaring A21 poked his head up behind a mass of wires.

  “What’d you call me?”

  “Sir, of course.” Dale blew a curl off her face. “The system is rigged very carefully.”

  “I got that, girl. If someone sneezed the whole thing’d blow.”

  “Then don’t,” she said tartly.

  The A21 brushed off dust and flipped open a notebook.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Dale rasped; Frecklie stepped between them.

  “You need a master re-routing cable.”

  Dale considered how much to fake knowing what he was talking about.

  “I was planning on that.”

  The ‘bot smirked. “You know what that is?”

  “Re-routing juice.”

  “Good guess. Yeah. Otherwise the damn Bronx goes dark.”

  “My wiring won’t do that,” Dale insisted.

  “Look here, girl.” The A21 gestured toward the wiring system. “If you overload the park, you’ll overload the surrounding neighborhood. This re-router makes sure you just blow up the stadium.”

  The A21 crawled behind the console, muttering and plugging in the re-router, and wriggling back out with a slight cough. He gave Dale a form to sign.

  “Which plug is it?” Frecklie asked.

  “Don’t you mind.”

  “The black one?”

  “Just leave it be. This is her responsibility if anything goes wrong.”

  Once the ‘bot left, Dale sprayed cleaner on the console, glancing at Frecklie out of the corner of her eye. “You have something to share?”

  He laughed weakly. “Nope. I have to check the food delivery. The game’s a sellout and I don’t want to run out of franks.”r />
  As Frecklie walked toward the door, Dale sprayed cleaner in his face. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not,” he moaned, eyes burning.

  “You don’t know shit about science or technology.” She twisted his elbow behind his back.

  He scooped her leg aside; Dale fell and he landed on top of her.

  “Mind your business,” he said.

  “My lover’s life is mine.”

  “You’re quoting Grandma?”

  “Yeah, because you’re worrying me.”

  Frecklie relaxed, enabling Dale to leap onto his back and clamp her forearm against his throat. “Tell me.”

  He choked a no.

  “You protecting me like I’m some weak piece of shit you stupid piece of shit?”

  Frecklie gagged yes.

  “Stop whining, you won’t black out for another thirty-five seconds. Tell me. Everything.” Dale tightened her grip.

  • • • •

  BETWEEN THE OBSESSIVE need to drive cars and the round-the-clock delivery of goods on trucks and rails, the sound of engines had replaced crickets as the nation’s anthem. Need a bus at four in the morning to get to work? It’d be there. Need a rush order on a pair of shoes? Some van would deliver it somehow. ‘Bots and humans, spinning wheels.

  Most Americans figured the crushing noise of cars politely lagging along in traffic in the middle of the night was typical. Families should be asleep, children dancing on chocolate clouds, loving parents clutching fingers, tick-tock in the dark. But factories were open 24/7 for a nation cut off from trade with the rest of the world and feeding and clothing and housing and protecting families took precedence over candy cane birdies and your partner’s bare flesh.

  Screw you, Allahs, you didn’t bury us.

  Except these caravans weren’t confined to the cars on the roads. People waited patiently on long lines at bus stops and train stations. No airports; that was for those who had money to spare. And the siblings trekking across the country had only so much money. For many, only so much savings. For gas and sandwiches and drinks.

  And their colors.

  There were no first reports because they came at once, like the ground opened. In a way, it had. They met at the rubble of Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, Braves Field, Forbes Stadium, Phillies Field and the Houston Aerodome. And every other stadium razed after 10/12.

  No one coordinated this. The news about the night game was announced on Grandma’s Wake Up My Darlings. There were important announcements where Grandma actually spoke and then there were the announcements where you saw Grandma smiling and her words floated out. Except these didn’t even float out of the screen on an HG carpet, they weren’t repeated in crawls on the screen, all you saw was the battered front of Yankee Stadium, Puppy striking out a batter, Mick hobbling around the bases and Dara blasting a song. If you rubbed some dirt out of your eye, you might’ve missed Saturday, August 11 at six-thirty PM. Live on vidsports 2.

  Yet somehow everyone in America knew and they all headed toward the Bronx for the first baseball night game in thirty-three years.

  Colors everywhere. Factories had started churning out Yankees and Cubs caps and t-shirts with the special FORGIVENESS on the back. But these colors weren’t those colors. Those were approved. These were reds and golds and light blues and deep red and light reds and blacks and grays. Caps and t-shirts and full jerseys and banners and sweatshirts and warm-up jackets. How old were some of them? Thirty, forty, fifty years old, hidden in basements and hidden in closets and hidden in holes in the ground. Hidden in a crazy belief that someday a baseball fan could wear his Red Sox and Phillies and Dodgers and Cardinals and Braves and Tigers colors and any team he loved or his parents loved or his grandparents loved.

  It didn’t matter who you rooted for. They were all baseball fans today.

  They drove and hitchhiked and used the last of their spare money for a bus or train ticket, devouring the food in their wake, cleaning out grocery stores of all the goods; some owners closed up shop since they had nothing left to sell anyway, and joined them.

  From the northern part of California, Nevada, Minnesota, Texas, Florida, New England, if you’d put the country on a scale, she would’ve tipped over from the massive population quietly, almost warily making their way to the Bronx. In their expressions you could read, well, what if it’s a trap? What if they’re really going to finish off all the baseball fans? Not just banning merchandise and memorabilia, not just burning gloves, breaking bats and blowing up stadiums, but gunning everyone down.

  But hadn’t Grandma preached FORGIVENESS? Didn’t they see the billboards of Grandma, Puppy and Dara? So they came. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, more than a few million by the time they poured onto the Cross-Bronx Expressway, traffic stalled for hours, miles, until it couldn’t be called traffic anymore.

  America had overwhelmed itself in hope on the doorstep of the Bronx.

  It’d taken Puppy over an hour through clogged streets and makeshift barbecues to find the cemetery. There was no street movement by wheels anymore. Trying to rush past the shouts of recognition, he’d moved from little bubbles of groups, shaking hands until he realized he’d probably miss the game tomorrow night if he talked to everyone, so he draped his hoodie over his forehead, shrunk his shoulders and hurried, eyes down, hands deep in his pockets, like a fugitive.

  He fit in. This part of the borough was more forbidding. He got lost a couple times, backtracking and ducking into alleys as lines of bat-waving fans crept past like a polite, conquering army.

  Beth squatted by a small mound. She smiled as he knelt.

  “You done praying?” Puppy apologized.

  “Some would say you never stop. But aloud, yes. How’s it going out there?”

  He couldn’t answer; it was overwhelming. For a quiet moment, they stared in the forbidden churchyard at the faint moon and the hint of stars; maybe it was real. Beth reached up as if to touch the sky.

  “It’s like a great cathedral’s overhead. One of those wonderful old churches with wonderful arches, golden lights, stained glass, paintings, statues.”

  “Like when I could imagine what Yankee Stadium once was. Or is that offensive to compare baseball to your God?”

  “No. Faith is faith.”

  They listened to the rumble of the fans walking slowly on the street below.

  “You’re sure about tomorrow?” Puppy suddenly asked.

  “Did you come to talk me out of it?” she scowled.

  “Yes.”

  “We already went through that, Puppy.” For three hours last night.

  “It’s my fault, my responsibility.”

  Beth draped her arm around his shoulder. “It’s your fault you married a crazy person and it’s your fault for getting engaged to Dara to make it easier for that crazy person to find someone?”

  “I did it for myself.”

  “It’s okay to be a little selfish, Puppy.” Beth gently smacked his forehead.

  “Good thing psychiatry’s banned.”

  “We don’t need it. People can figure things out for themselves. The trick’s listening.” She smacked him again. “I can handle tomorrow.”

  He thought of Beth scampering up and down the brocades and smiled wearily. “But I’m insisting on a driver. I’m sure two person missions were taught in vets summer camp.”

  She ignored him with a meaningful smile. “Just keep Ruben out of this.”

  Puppy made a tiny space between his forefinger and thumb.

  “Because only you know it all.”

  He shrugged. “Someone has to be the mastermind.”

  This afternoon, the Brown Hats had interrupted infield practice; Ty chased them down the third base line with a bat. They came back. Himself, Mick and Ty for two grilling hours. Dara was questioned during rehearsal at the vidmus studio. Pablo, who wryly said he had nothing else to do at work. Anyone with a connection to Zelda. Except Beth.

  “All Parents records are confidential. Unless
it’s a capital offense. Another reason I’m perfect for this,” she said. Puppy nodded and yawned. “You should rest.”

  “So should you. I’m just pitching.”

  Beth doodled in the dirt. “Do you believe in ever-lasting love, Puppy?”

  Now Puppy had the opening to say he loved her. He tensed. “I’ve never been there.”

  “Not even with Annette?”

  He hesitated. “In the beginning. Then the illusion kicked in. Love’s a tricky mirror.”

  “What about Zelda?”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “You love her more than you ever could a partner.”

  He saw Beth’s expression, the realization making his stomach sink. “You love her, too. That’s why you’re doing this.”

  Beth rested her chin on his shoulder. “Does that hurt you?”

  “Because I go to sleep at night imagining kissing your breasts?”

  She laughed so loud the dirt on the grave stirred. That didn’t make him feel any better. “I didn’t think it went quite that far.” Beth grew serious. “Yes, I love her. She’s very unique.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Is there something I should know?”

  Now it was his turn to make the dirt dance. “This isn’t exactly a relationship with a future.”

  She shrugged sadly. “What is?”

  He followed her long look at the grave. “Was he?”

  Beth sighed. “It was painful love from the start. He had dreams up his ass and no ladder tall enough to reach them. But he was a good guy. And we had a child.” She suddenly squeezed his hand. “I would’ve liked to have loved you, Puppy. I mean that. It would’ve simplified so much. Frecklie views you like a father. You have the makings of a good Catholic. You’re decent.”

  “You forgot something. Oh Puppy, kiss my breasts.”

  She chuckled. “You’re obsessed by them.”

  “Metaphoric.”

  “If I were a different person I’d let you see them.”

  “Jesus wouldn’t like such talk.”

  “See. You already have me thinking things I shouldn’t.”

  “That’s what friends are about.” He hugged Beth. “You better never hurt my Zelda.”

  She gave him a mock salute.

  “Does Zelda love you, too?”