A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  The audience stomped their feet. Her band waited, sax, pianist, bass guitar, drums; her old group The Pinholes always knew when she’d start. These folks couldn’t be blamed for thinking five minutes of anticipatory noise was enough. She’d know the right moment.

  Behind the thick purple curtain, Mooshie tilted her head to catch the faint waves of sound. It could’ve been building for miles; Kenuda had preened that traffic was stalled for hundreds of miles and he’d rescued everyone with his portable roadside screens. He and that bitch Annette deserved each other.

  The sounds congealed, there, she could make it out. One word, two syllables. Out of the darkness, Schrage limped forward, panic on his bleeding face; he’d fallen the last five feet.

  “For the love of Grandma’s earlobe, will you please get out there?”

  Mooshie smiled innocently. “But I was waiting for my director’s cue.”

  Ian nearly swallowed his tongue. Mooshie skipped on stage into the deafening roar of Da-ra, Da-ra.

  “Hello America.” She flipped her hair from front to back. “What did you say?”

  “Dara,” they yelled.

  “What?” She held out the microphone.

  “Dara!”

  “What?”

  “Dara, Dara, Dara,” the chant erupted.

  “All right. Now I’m going to feed you.”

  She exploded through the Mooshie sizzler Drill My Heart, followed by the Dear Drops ballad and then the number one tune Boil My Blood Baby.

  “Think you got my temperature

  Do you now

  When all you got

  Is blood that don’t boil

  I need real loving

  Yes I do

  When you’re up to it

  Give me a cue

  ‘Cause until now

  You’re nothing but a speck.”

  Mooshie flung the blonde wig into the crowd, which went insane, tearing for a piece. Puppy nearly fainted. Not tonight, Moosh.

  Mooshie fluffed up her short black hair and the crowd went nuts again, screaming themselves hoarse. It wasn’t until the music quieted that they all became aware of the faint whirring of a ‘copter, suddenly hovering above the stage.

  Grandma’s legs dangled girlishly over the edge, white socks rolling down over her neat purple sneakers. She waved at Mooshie.

  “Hi,” she paused meaningfully, “Dara. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  Grandma’s eyes drilled into Mooshie, frozen as if all her ligaments were sewn together.

  “Grandma,” Mooshie finally managed.

  The crowd roared for a couple minutes before Grandma shooshed them like they were misbehaving before bedtime.

  “Are you enjoying yourselves?” She waited for the shouts to die down. “I won’t take up much time because we have a baseball game to play.” Grandma understood their suddenly silent anxiety. “Which is wonderful and why I’m here.”

  She wiggled back and forth, trying to find a comfortable place.

  “I love you all very much.” Grandma brushed off the “we love you too” responses. “That’s why I want to apologize. I made a mistake once. I let my anger at what wrongheaded, but sincere Americans believed, to cloud my judgment. Baseball represented an America I didn’t understand, an America I never really knew. A strong America. A leader. The leader. Baseball above all else represented that. A time of glory, freedom, a different world where problems could be solved by a game of catch in the backyard. I thought that world was gone. Some ways, it is. But what I destroyed was passion and love and respect for tradition. All the themes The Family represents are captured in baseball. It’s part of this country. That with one swing of a bat you can change everything.”

  Grandma paused. You could hear a pin drop across America. “I destroyed something very special and I’m sorry.”

  The silence continued because no one knew what to say.

  “Thank you, Grandma,” Mooshie said quietly and “thank you Grandmas” rippled back into the night, softly, as if the last words before going to sleep.

  Lenora smiled faintly.

  “You’re going to have your baseball back. This isn’t the last season. Let’s hope there’s a hundred more.”

  The ‘copter drifted up and stealthed. Now the crowd murmured, unsure what just happened.

  You cunning bitch. You’re a genius.

  “Didn’t you hear what she said?” Mooshie yelled. “This ain’t the last baseball season.” The crowd started screaming. “There’s gonna be baseball all over the country.” The shouts got louder. “They’re gonna rebuild all the parks. Right? Right? RIGHT?”

  Puppy ran onto the stage and hugged Mooshie, joined by Kenuda. America shouted itself hoarse.

  • • • •

  EMBARRASSED, ZELDA DIDN’T know what to do with the green daisies. Annette took over the domestic situation.

  “They put together such a nice layout and don’t give you a vase?” Annette briefly re-arranged the lumpy sofa and chair a little further apart, straightening the coffee table and frowning at the wobbly floor lamp. She marched into the kitchen area, ready to issue citations, and rummaged through the nearly empty cupboard before triumphantly brandishing a tall chipped glass which she filled with water.

  “I knew there had to be something.” Annette balanced the daisies in the glass, muttering about no scissors to cut the stems and spending another minute deciding where the flowers should go. She settled on the end table next to Zelda’s narrow, unmade bed. Sighing loudly, she made the bed, fluffed the pillow and sat on the lumpy chair, two girlfriends catching up except for Zelda’s desire to cut Annette’s throat.

  “How are you?” Annette asked brightly. “Not a bad place for a prison. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

  “Is that what you’re told?”

  “I just assume you’ll say where the brat is and be done with it. She’s not even yours so why protect her?”

  Zelda’s mouth curled viciously and Annette continued on in a cheerful tone.

  “I’ve been okay, thanks,” she said as if Zelda had done more than glare. “Business is good. All these people in town, well, you’d think that’d help someone like me, but they’re not quite my customers. Clomp, clomp. Puppy’s pitching tonight. There was a concert by that woman. I couldn’t go, too busy.”

  “You came here, instead.”

  “That’s my right.”

  “Your right?”

  “Well, both our rights. Accuser and accused.” Annette’s fingers got momentarily confused who was who. “I’m sorry about all this. Grandma asks a lot of us to fulfill our duty. We have to push aside personal feelings. Despite that, I visited. Have you had many guests?”

  “I have no family, Annette. No one else is allowed.”

  “Then it’s good I came.” She looked around as if the furniture had secretly moved. “Is that a window?”

  Zelda turned toward the narrow two-by-two square. “If it could be called that.”

  “There’s a night game at the baseball stadium. Very historic. The first time in ages. I was with my fiance Elias Kenuda, Third Cousin and Commissioner, who put this event together.”

  Zelda gave her the finger, which only made Annette’s smile widen.

  “He’s a brilliant man. So much to be done. You probably think, oh, a concert, here’s the mike, play the piano. Here’s a baseball game, throw the ball. Astonishing what goes into it. I did make my contribution to the cause with some advice, he’ll get the credit, well, we are a couple and will be getting married in two months once the trial period passes. I bet we can hear the crowd from that window if not actually see something.”

  Annette pressed her face against the pane. Something about Annette’s pitiable expression drew Zelda. Their shoulders touched in the narrow space.

  “I hear the fans, don’t you?” Annette squinted through the fading sunlight.

  “That’s my stomach growling,” Zelda said.

  “Maybe you need to feed the baby.” She
stared at Zelda’s stomach. “Can I pet it?”

  Zelda nodded slowly. Annette leaned forward, hand on Zelda’s belly, mouth by her ear.

  “They’re moving you to a BT facility tomorrow.”

  Zelda stiffened. The Annette she’d always known quickly returned with a boisterous shout out the window.

  “Let’s go Puppy and all that baseball stuff.”

  • • • •

  DALE LAY FLAT on her back, legs propped against the back wall. Outside the control room, one of her five guards charged with keeping the human race away raised an eyebrow as her skirt fell around her hips, revealing her pink panties. Dale bared her teeth and the girl turned away so quickly her head nearly got stuck backwards.

  Once again, Dale blotted out the din from the fans, vendors, flies, grass, clouds. There should’ve been complete quiet. How can I work with all this noise? Dale pounded the floor. I’m fine, she told herself, sitting up. Everything’s going to be fine. She threw back her blonde curls and walked calmly, if a little stiffly, back to her control panel.

  Twenty thousand candles flickered from the bleachers to home as the sun slowly set. Down on the field, Dara and a small band entertained, guided by three squat lamps. The teams idly tossed balls in front of the dugouts. The noises, to a person not melting down, were really hums of expectation. Respectful, quiet, unsure what was going to happen since few if any of them had ever seen a sports night game; there were a lot of craning heads looking up at the brocades.

  Dale stared at the console. She hated doing anything too quickly because it meant she lost an element of control. Yet she loved spontaneity because it left a part of her behind and she was arrogant enough to know her genius mind had already figured everything out.

  She hadn’t really figured this out. The scoreboard was different. She understood programming and imagination and creating, glancing at a Dale HG racing past on a carpet resembling an infield. This was boring. She was easily bored. She knew she must really love Frecklie if they’d been together a year and he hadn’t bored her yet.

  Frecklie waved a flashlight by the Yankees dugout, waiting for the signal back. It was getting really dark now, he gestured. Like she didn’t fucking know that. By home plate, Dara shot her a pleading look and launched into another song, her voice like a cow getting it up the ass; Dale shoved in her earplugs.

  Shit, she suddenly remembered, crawling under the console and unhooking the rerouter. If you forgot something this important, what else have you forgotten?

  Okay. What’s the worst that could happen? Dale casually licked a caramel cane. The lights don’t go on. That’s pretty bad. Or the lights go on and Yankee Stadium blows up. That’s even worse. Probably about fifty thousand people here and more outside. That’d be ugly. Dale Danaka, the Butcher of the Bronx.

  She smiled. The nearness of catastrophe gave her a sense of calm. Dale cracked her fingers. The stadium was now totally dark, except for the candles and the lamps around home plate. She waved her flashlight, cueing Dara, who began the countdown from ten, the crowd shyly joining in.

  At two, Dale hit the switch. Nothing.

  She glowered at the console. Work you motherfuckers.

  As if God walked in holding one really big candle, the lights turned on, quickly rushing across the upper decks, foul pole to foul pole until Yankee Stadium was ablaze. The crowd fell into stunned silence, then cheered, turning toward Dale, who bowed, taking full credit, as she should.

  Beyond the outfield, the Bronx went dark. Like God blew out His candle.

  • • • •

  SHE WAITED UNTIL the lights went out before running into the pitch black lobby of the Bronx Courthouse, slipping through the bewildered visitors and guards and past the abandoned security check-in up the steps, two at a time. The floor plans from the library were quite good and she quickly found Room 202, ducking into the doorway as Blue Shirts raced down the steps.

  She slid the thin piece of metal into the doorframe and slipped inside so quietly the two shadowed women peering out the window didn’t notice.

  Two?

  Beth pulled off her thin black ski mask. Zelda’s surprise lasted a second before she ran into her arms.

  “You’re rescuing me?”

  Beth winked and looked over Zelda’s shoulder.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Who am I?” Annette was indignant. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Annette,” Zelda whispered, squeezing Beth’s tense back.

  “Oh shit.”

  “What’re you whispering about?”

  “We have to take her,” Beth said with distaste.

  Annette laughed weakly. “I’m not going anywhere except to the police. This is an illegal act.” She put her hands on her hips, scolding Zelda. “You can’t help being a criminal, can you?”

  Beth covered the distance to the window in three quick steps and punched Annette in the jaw, who slid against the wall into an unconscious seated position

  “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Zelda said.

  Beth winked again, draping Annette over her shoulders and hurrying out the door. They took the back staircase, ducking into an alcove as more Blue Shirts rushed past. Beth paused by the back door.

  “It’s going to be noisy.”

  The clanging alarm finally faded as they ran down East 162nd Street to a parked black van with gold lettering, Basil Hayden’s Funeral Home. Wearing a dark workmen’s uniform, Mickey hopped out of the driver’s seat, kissed Zelda quickly and opened the back door, wonderingly taking Annette.

  Two coffins lay in the back. The lid on the smaller one popped open.

  “Hola, Zelda!” Clary waved happily.

  Zelda burst into tears and hugged the child.

  “No time for that,” Beth said sternly, helping Mickey lay Annette into the adult coffin. Clary hissed in recognition.

  “Try not to suffocate.” Beth kissed Zelda on the forehead as she squeezed next to Annette, then joined Mickey in the front seat. “Sure you can drive?”

  Mickey shrugged. “Only been a hundred years. Like riding a bike.”

  By the time they edged onto the emergency lanes, trailing fire trucks and cop cars and repair vehicles, the lights started trickling back in parts. It was hard to say if the fans standing on the car roofs were watching the glow of Yankee Stadium or the stumbling reawakening of the Bronx’s electrical grid system. Either way, there was loud music and food and wonderment at the carnival of surprises.

  Once past Burnside Avenue, they slowed down at a snake-like checkpoint near 188th Street. A bug-eyed Blue Shirt in need of a nap peered inside as Mick rolled down the window.

  “Evening, sir.” Mantle smiled. “Big night.”

  The cop made a face. “I could write a book. You’re in the wrong lane.”

  “We got turned around near the stadium.”

  “Who hasn’t?” The Blue Shirt gratefully rested his elbows on the window. “You have to get back in the civilian lanes.”

  The cars were backed up for miles on either side.

  “We got some stiffs,” Mick explained.

  Beth handed over the papers from the funeral home authorizing the transportation of two corpses. The Blue Shirt held up the documents, vainly looking for a light to read by. He gave up. “Picked a helluva night.”

  “Bet they’re unhappy, too,” Mick quipped.

  A faint groan snuck into the front seat. The Blue Shirt frowned.

  “What’s that?”

  “They just died.”

  The cop rapped his nightstick on the side view mirror and followed them around to the back of the van.

  Beth held her breath as Mick opened the door. The Blue Shirt shined his flashlight over the adult and child-sized coffins.

  “Mother and daughter,” Beth said softly.

  The Blue Shirt apologetically tipped his cap. “I got two daughters. One husband.” He closed the back door and scribbled on the back of a slip. “Stay in the emergency lane. Anyone gives y
ou grief, show ‘em Sergeant Pine said it’s okay.”

  They drove a little quicker, hitting the Major Deegan and finding the lane nearly empty as all the emergency vehicles poured the other way into the city. After a few twists and turns along dark country roads, they pulled into a clearing, turning off the engine, killing the lights and waiting.

  “Know these people?” Mick jerked his head toward the dark woods.

  “No,” Beth said quietly. “Mooshie does. It’s either this or they keep running. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “This used to be our world,” Mantle said.

  “It’s awfully small if you’re a loser.”

  Mick bristled. “America ain’t a bunch of losers.”

  “We convinced ourselves we were, Mick. That everything we did was wrong. Hateful. That people wanted us dead because of what we did, not because of what they wanted. We were the bad guys by defending ourselves. By the time we realized hey, we’re not perfect, but we’re not all bad, it was too late.”

  Mantle brushed away a tear. “You can’t lose a country just like that.”

  She tenderly squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s still out there.”

  Four hooded figures brandishing rifles motioned for them to raise their hands as they stepped out. Mick and Beth were quickly frisked. A slight figure circled a match around their faces and nodded approval to his colleagues. He pocketed the spent match.

  “In the back.” Beth indicated with her head.

  Mick unlocked the door while Beth crawled inside and rapped on the coffin lids. Clary popped up, gasping a little, and leaped out as if she had wires under her armpits. Zelda was stuck; Beth tugged her out, then they lifted out the still groggy Annette.

  The guards let them lower their hands.

  “You disfigured my mouth,” Annette yelled at Beth, who handed Zelda and Clary water bottles.

  “There’s supposed to be only two,” said a tall guard, more to his colleagues.

  “She was on site and had to be extracted,” Beth explained.

  “Kidnapped.” Annette stepped forward. “I’ve been kidnapped by these, these criminals. A baseball player yet,” she sneered at Mick. “Big surprise. I insist you bring me to the local police station so I can file a full report.”