A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “After tomorrow night, how could she not?” Beth shivered in the brisk wind.

  “We should get you home.”

  Beth patted the lumpy backpack. “Sometimes I nap here.”

  He cringed. “In a cemetery?”

  “It’s like being in the waiting room of Heaven.”

  He didn’t buy that, but this would be as close as he’d ever get to spending the night with her. They rolled up, arms around each other, wrapped in two woolen blankets. He prayed to Jesus not to let him get an erection.

  “Puppy?” she whispered after a while, waking him.

  He sat up in alarm and she gently laid him back down. “Nothing’s going wrong tomorrow. Don’t worry. But you never know. Most of these people didn’t expect to end up here so soon. So if something goes south in a handcart, as my father used to say, I want you adopting Ruben.”

  He rubbed his bleary eyes. “What?”

  Beth kissed his cheek and tucked him in. “You’d do it anyway. I just wanted you to have my blessing.”

  • • • •

  LIEUTENANT ARTITO DIDN’T like being in charge, especially when he’d had no time to prepare. Sure, when Tomas was gone, he was head of the detachment. But Tomas was never gone. In the eighteen years he’d been in Grandma’s security platoon, Tomas had always been here wherever she went, whatever the time, whatever the circumstances. Like her sixth toe.

  Grandma looked at him impatiently and hurried along the long marble corridor past the fresh flowers on the tables and laughing HG children throwing balls. He still sometimes thought they were real and made a wide arc, catching up to Grandma as they went onto the dark green lawn of the House.

  “We weren’t scheduled for this, ma’am.” He tried blocking her without seeming to.

  “Now we are.”

  “Shouldn’t I call Major Stilton?” Tomas had already ignored three pleas, but at least it’d seem like Artito was doing his duty.

  “Aren’t you capable of handling me?” Grandma smiled faintly.

  He stiffened. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She tapped her feet and the ‘copter appeared. Grandma hopped in. The baffled platoon looked at Artito for guidance; he snapped orders for them to haul ass up and out.

  The ‘copter skipped south, Grandma’s face pressed against the window in amazement.

  “How far back do they go?” She pointed at the streams of cars.

  “Northwest to the Poconos, north to Albany, south to Philadelphia, east to Hartford. There’s no traffic movement anymore, ma’am. Just cars. People.”

  “Show me.”

  Artito grunted at Lt. Onuyomi, who spasmed nervously until he found the raw surveillance footage. Grandma’s lips parted slowly in thought.

  “How will they watch the game?”

  “It’ll be on the vidsports, ma’am.”

  “Are screens on the highways, Lieutenant?”

  Artito really hated Tomas at this moment. “I don’t believe so.”

  “Then how will they watch?” She touched his wrist. “That’s not an accusation, but a question.”

  “I guess they can’t.”

  Grandma nodded. “See how much easier it is when you’re not afraid? Get Commissioner Kenuda on his tracker.”

  The platoon exchanged puzzled looks.

  “It’s that gizmo over there.” Grandma pointed to a black keyboard in the corner. “Dial 22, then ask for Third Cousin Kenuda and say it’s Grandma.”

  Three soldiers banged into each other scrambling to fulfill the order.

  “Now let’s get closer.”

  Artito nodded carefully and ordered the ‘copter to drop a hundred feet. They drifted over the Grand Concourse where tents had been pitched, barbecues grilled, children ran around, between and on top of cars. Everywhere, baseball banners flew.

  “I’ve never seen so many people out,” she marveled.

  “There were millions for the Surrender, I mean Truce Parade, ma’am.”

  “Because they had to be. Today, they want to be. Look at them. How happy everyone is. Why is that?”

  No one knew the right answer. Grandma laughed her warm, reassuring sound, as if they were being bathed in soapy bubbles. They offered a variety of opinions about this just being spontaneous and fun and an adventure.

  “There’s more. Can something spontaneous and powerful be controlled or does that not make it spontaneous anymore?”

  No amount of bubbles in their hair could persuade the soldiers to respond.

  “Let’s set down somewhere.”

  Artito glanced around in panic; everyone heard the same order, too.

  “Ma’am, we can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” They turned down 161st Street.

  “Security considerations.”

  “You think I’ll be at risk?”

  “Yes.”

  Grandma shook her head firmly and rapped on the cockpit door. “Land, please.”

  The Lieutenant grimaced. “There’s nowhere to land. Only cars and people. We’ll hurt someone, yes,” he liked that argument, “we might land on a child or something.”

  Grandma chuckled and sat back, arms folded. “I have faith in my pilots.”

  “I should really ask Major Stilton.”

  Grandma gave him a hard stare. “He’s not here. You are, Lieutenant.”

  Artito scurried into the cockpit.

  “I heard.” Lt. Jin nodded. “I’ll find somewhere.” She gestured Artito back into the cabin.

  “Okay. We’re going down.”

  Grandma grinned. “Perhaps that’s not the best phrase.”

  Jin circled a while over the carpet of humans before finally landing on the roof of a yellow school bus blocking Gerard Street. The winds startled the crowd. When the ‘copter materialized and everyone realized who it was, they let out a great roar.

  “It’s not steady,” Artito shouted into the cockpit as the school bus trembled.

  Metal claws from the ‘copter dug into the roof.

  “Is now,” Jin called back.

  Grandma pushed the exit button, hopped out of the aircraft onto the roof and, with a quick jump, onto the street.

  “Follow her, damnit,” Artito snapped.

  Grandma pressed forward, anxious soldiers fanning out as another ‘copter appeared, just as a reminder; the other two remained stealth and circled 161st Street.

  “Where are you from, darling?” Grandma embraced an elderly woman, who explained she was a Cincinnati Reds fan, triggering another explanation about how that was a different red from her neighbor, a St. Louis Cardinals fan.

  Soon Grandma was surrounded by fans representing each team, shyly coming forward and showing their clothes and equipment. She received a quick batting lesson, apologizing for cracking a side view mirror on the backswing, tossing balls, effortlessly hoisting children onto her shoulders and slowly making her way toward the stadium.

  People parted to let her past, then followed, as if on the train of a long gown, amazed they were here, amazed Grandma was here, amazed she tried fielding a grounder and then chased the ball when it rolled through her legs under the El, where she encountered sheepish workers erecting the stage for the concert behind a long yellow ribbon squaring off the large area.

  Grandma decided everyone was going to help and yanked down the ropes. Fans poured through, eagerly hammering and moving stanchions and wires. Someone sang Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Soon hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands were singing as they worked, food passing freely. Grandma wielded a hammer, teeth clamped on spare nails; Artito frantically kept her in sight.

  Grandma insisted she be taught the words. She picked it up instantly, jumped onto the stage and, waving her hammer as a baton, led the crowd in song.

  After a while, Grandma nodded wearily. Artito ordered one of the ‘copters to land onto the stage. He held his breath, but it didn’t collapse. Half the platoon guarded the perimeter while he led the rest back onto the ‘copter. She waved and
waved and waved and sang until the ‘copter lifted. He only enjoyed a moment of relaxation.

  “Go over the stadium,” Grandma ordered.

  They stealthed and circled the empty park. Grandma’s smile faded into a puzzled frown.

  How could so much passion and love turn so ugly, she wondered. What did I do so wrong?

  The ‘copter drifted over center field. She leaned out; the detachment gasped. Lenora grumbled them away, impatient, angry.

  October 12, 2065. She heard the sound of gunfire again, felt the bullet crease her head, heard the children screaming, the bombs falling. Americans killing Americans because they cared too much, Lenora realized. Can love be a crime?

  Forgiving them isn’t enough. I have to forgive myself, too, Grandma thought.

  37

  Kenuda yanked the phone out of the wall and threw it over Annette’s head. She didn’t duck since it was the third phone he’d broken. The first two were dramatic, all those weird parts rolling around. Now it was just irritating noise. Snorting at her poise, Elias petulantly kicked a football against the window, grunting triumphantly at the cracked glass.

  The ‘bot secretary silently replaced the phone and closed the curtains, shooting Kenuda a withering look.

  “Get me the damn ‘copter company in Allentown,” he shouted. “That’s in Pennsylvania.”

  The A10 turned in disgust. “I know that, sir. Would you like me to recite the names of all the communities in America beginning with the letter A?”

  “For now, more coffee. You want more?” he scowled at Annette as if she’d just arrived instead of sitting there for three agonizing hours listening to him fight with every police and military and shipping and aerial and electrical and building and whoever knows who person in the country.

  “That would be nice, honey.”

  Kenuda wrenched the ringing receiver to his ear. Annette gave that phone an hour to live, tops.

  “Yes. This is Third Cousin Kenuda. Yes, the same as Commissioner Kenuda. Who’s been waiting for the permit to erect the vidscreen on Route 34…Do you understand we don’t have twenty-four hours because the game begins in…” He looked helplessly toward Annette, who held up her watch. “In three hours. I didn’t have clearance earlier. Now now, wait, wait, Sheriff Baja. Look out your window. What do you see? Past the blasted car wash. All those people. Do you know what will happen if they can’t see the game? I’ll tell you, damnit. They’re going to be angry. I’m going to be angry. Grandma’s going to be angry. Not your Grandma, imbecile. The Grandma. That’s right. The Grandma. Her orders. Good. Get it done now.”

  He went to yank this phone out of the wall, but the secretary returned, putting down the tray of coffee. “It’s the last phone on the floor, sir.”

  “Kenuda, sweetheart.” Annette closed the door behind the grumbling ‘bot. “Let me help.”

  “You?”

  She winced. “Yes. Me.”

  “What could you possibly do, Annette?” Kenuda snarled into his computer screen. “Boston is still not up. And that’s at Fenway Park.” He paused on Annette’s sad expression. “Darling, I wish you could help. There’s just chaos.”

  “So I’ve been hearing…” Her dress was completely wilted in the steamy room.

  “Some temp screens say they can only show the concert, but not the game, too. Why? We have one vid network. It’s the same feed. No wonder I’m needed to run both sports and entertainment.”

  “Maybe they’re having problems because you only decided forty-eight hours ago.”

  “Me?” he yelled.

  “Stop yelling. You should’ve thought of this sooner.”

  His lips silently counted to three. “That I was able to pull this off is a miracle. Miracle. Booking bands, schedules, rehearsals, the lights, the promotion. Is there anyone in the United States of America who doesn’t know about this historic occasion?”

  “Mainly been Puppy and Dara on the vidnews,” she said sourly.

  “Who the hell arranged that? Little flying fairies in the forest? Becoming Second Cousin isn’t reward enough.”

  Annette’s eyes widened. “Oh my baby, you’re getting promoted?”

  “Eventually. What time is it again?”

  She twisted her arm so he could read the watch. “We have to leave by five, you said.”

  “I must go earlier.”

  “Okay, I don’t mind…”

  “Annette,” he said sternly, “there’s a lot of boring backstage crap. The acts, director, oh, Ian Schrage’s a pip…”

  “He’s famous. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Kenuda looked uncomfortable. “Annette, there’s really no place for you there.”

  “That’s where all the real excitement is.”

  “Stress. Aggravation. Massive egos of weak-minded but gifted people who need a firm hand on their elbow which I can’t do if I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll behave.”

  “But I’ve got you a seat for the show and of course, the game, if you like.”

  “I should be with you…”

  “You can’t.” He frothed slightly at his beeping computer screen. “Be a wonderful and supportive girl and amuse yourself somewhere until then.”

  • • • •

  THE THUMPING ON the door was so persistent it became a beat, blending into the prog-country doo-dad band warming up the crowd out there, somewhere beyond the vodka mist.

  “I’m breaking down the door.”

  How long would that take? Depends if he had an axe. Or bazooka. Yes, a large projectile would work best.

  The thumping sounds stopped, replaced by quiet jingling, very secretive to make sure she wouldn’t hear. She’d fool them and be waiting with a large projectile herself.

  Mooshie was on her hands and knees, searching for vodka when Puppy finally opened the door. He clicked on the light and she dove under the bed, pleading for the dark. He dragged Mooshie out by her ankles. She made no effort to get off her stomach other than gesture for the bottle of Butte’s Best Vodka on the table.

  Puppy shouted, “What the hell’s going on? Your set’s in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m ready. Just relaxing, honey.”

  He flipped her onto her back and straddled her chest.

  “I ain’t giving you a blowjob.” Mooshie grinned crookedly.

  “I don’t take blow jobs from drunks.”

  “Oh, we do have standards.” She knocked him aside and stumbled to the table, downing the last of the vodka.

  “There are hundreds of thousands of people out there. Maybe a million. The whole country’s watching.”

  “Yes. You and I. Mr. and Ms. America’s Favorite Couple. He throws. I sing. Forgiveness. Lights, camera, action. Forgiveness. It’s all bullshit, Puppy.”

  “Maybe to you. Not to them.” He jerked his head in the direction of the thunderous applause as the doo-dad band scampered off and the next group, a drum quartet from Philly called Divine Pleasure, pounded their way on.

  “I’ll be there. Enchanting, brilliant Dara Dinton.”

  He shook his head. “Spare me your crap.”

  “Is that any way to talk to someone whose underwear you’ve cherished for twenty-five years?”

  “You can’t screw up the concert.”

  “I will fuck up nothing,” she hissed. “Other than my life. For the rest of the world, I live on, Mooshie, Dara, who knows what my next incarnation will be. No, incarnation is when your soul returns in another body. Well, I ain’t got a soul. All I got is this.”

  Cradling the empty bottle, Mooshie slumped sadly in a chair. He knelt, handing her a steaming mug of coffee.

  “What happened, Moosh?”

  “I’m having trouble understanding why I’m here. Whose side I’m on.”

  “Mine.” He kissed her hand.

  “But whose side are you on, Pup?”

  “Mine,” he admitted. “And that side has brought a night game back to Yankee Stadium…”

  “I’m scared,
Pup,” Mooshie whispered.

  “So I see.”

  “You’re scared, too.”

  “Every day. I don’t get it, either, other than we all got second chances. Me, you, Mick, Ty. He hasn’t called anyone a nigra or spic in weeks.”

  They laughed softly.

  “What scares you the most?” Puppy asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “That I’ll be sent back to wherever I came from before I know why I came.” Mooshie blinked back tears. “My friends murdered me, Pup. Derek Singh, Easy Sun Yen. I was an embarrassment. My best friends. The Three Amigos.”

  Puppy stared, astonished.

  “They gave the order. Now I gotta sing a couple songs and walk back into the stadium,” her voice dipped harshly, “where I was once hot shit, knowing what they did. All the lies my life was, when the people I trusted the most, loved dearly, thought nothing of killing me. That’s what I’m thinking tonight.”

  Puppy thought carefully for a moment, wiping away her tears. “If it’s all bullshit, then what’s it matter concocting more bullshit to explain it away.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “If I can’t explain, then there’s no confusion. I take the mound at Yankee Stadium, Moosh. My dream. Not a big deal to you…”

  “It was always a big deal,” she blazed. “I never took it for granted. Lots else. Not that.”

  “I just thought of something. Maybe you can pitch an inning some game.”

  She shuddered. “I’m skeeved out this close to the players’ entrance and you want me to pitch?”

  “You’re right. It’d be embarrassing compared to me. I’ve struck out more than ten batters in eight straight games.”

  Mooshie staggered up. “And I did it twenty-three straight games.”

  “Twenty-four. I know old people have bad memories.” He kissed her fingers. “You can trust me, Moosh. Totally.”

  “I know. You’re not smart enough to be manipulative.” She gulped down the rest of the scalding coffee while he wondered about that compliment. “Now get your ass out of here so the greatest baseball player and the greatest singer in the history of the world can put her makeup back on.”

  The stage lights were like stepping onto the surface of the Sun. Ian shouted into the earphones to get on; she crushed the plugs with her heels. In the twenty-foot perch directly overhead, Schrage bounced up and down like an ornery child.