A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  • • • •

  THE WAITER DIDN’T give Pablo a particularly cordial smile as he led him to a table at the rear near an exposed heating pipe, tossing down a menu and shuffling behind the counter. The three old men at the front stared rudely while Pablo slowly bit into a pickle. He held it up in a toast and they looked away, muttering.

  It was only ten-thirty, too early for lunch and too late for breakfast; brunch was a concept Pablo always reserved for a relationship. When you had nothing else to fill your day, any time was good for a meal, Pablo thought sadly. His patients had vanished. He didn’t know why but suspected getting bumped from the Cousins program played a role. He still had to keep the office open, even if he held a darts tournament in the waiting room; otherwise he’d be placed on the Lazy List and assigned a job.

  What positions in Grandma’s Family are available for insolent ex-dentists? he could hear Zelda say. Maybe a clown, lean into the whole smile-o-meter thing. How many patients have you wanted to spritz with seltzer? He smiled. Puppy said she was safe. No more info than that. Safe suddenly seemed like a lot.

  The waiter stared sullenly. Pablo made him recite the daily specials. It took about five minutes, weighted by a number of questions about matzo brei and the relationship between salami and eggs.

  He yawned. “Coffee for now.”

  He waited until the muttering old man disappeared down the hallway beyond the counter, then rose, stretching like he’d been tied up for a week, and with a loud proclamation informed everyone he needed the bathroom.

  Pablo wandered past the kitchen, angling for a better look through the small window on the double doors. The waiter stood motionlessly by a large table as a faceless ‘bot in a white apron carved up meats, spraying blood. The waiter dabbed at a stain on his shoulder and ladled out a bunch of pickles into a large serving dish. The ‘bot kept chopping.

  The waiter went through a side door and, within seconds, another waiter came back in. No stain, no dish.

  This new waiter quickly went from food table to table, carrying five dishes at once. Now another waiter returned, shoulder stain intact. The two robots conferred. A pair of eyes caught him.

  Pablo ducked into the bathroom, flushing the toilet and loudly running the sink water before returning to his table. One of the waiters ambled over with a pad to take his order.

  Pablo was about to order the lox and onions special when a second waiter stood by the table, smiling. Now a third and a fourth and a fifth waiter surrounded him, all holding pencils and pads, all with the same gruff stares.

  “I’m not tipping everyone.” Pablo lowered his shoulder and tried plowing through, but one of the pencils stabbed him in the neck. As he hit the floor, he noticed the waiters were all wearing gray socks.

  39

  Buca and Y’or waited for Kenuda to bully the keyboard with his thick fingers; Brown Hats believed justice was patient.

  Kenuda glowered at the screen one more time, daring it to disobey. “Bit of a fire drill today. There are about nine million former soldiers that we know of through various pensions, medical care, DV settlements. That we know of. Suddenly many of them want to come to the game. In four days. And I’m in the center of it all.”

  The detectives shrugged politely, unimpressed as they had to be.

  “But I always have time for my colleagues the police,” he continued, ready for these annoying little men to leave him alone. “What can the office of the Commissioner of Sport and Entertainment do for you?”

  “Nothing,” Buca replied, puzzled by the question. “This is personal, Third Cousin.”

  Elias narrowed his eyes warily. “In what way?”

  “It concerns your fiancé Annette Ramos.”

  “What happened?”

  “We believe she was abducted during a prison escape on the night of the blackout.”

  Kenuda didn’t quite take that in. “I don’t understand.”

  “A prisoner, Zelda Jones, was, we strongly believe, rescued from the Bronx Courthouse. According to the security check-in, Ms. Ramos was visiting Ms. Jones as part of the accused/accuser provision. When the lights were restored, both siblings were gone and blood, tracked to Ms. Ramos, was on the floor of the prisoner’s room.”

  Y’or handed Kenuda the report, which he quickly studied and returned with a shake of the head. “I don’t know anything about this. Who would rescue Jones and why would they take Annette?”

  Buca straightened the crease on his pants leg. “The former, we’re not sure, but suspect it has to do with the missing orphan child. The latter, either your fiance was a witness to this crime or participated in the escape.”

  Kenuda laughed. “Annette? Unless shoes are involved, that’s very unlikely.”

  The Detectives exchanged a meaningful look. Y’or continued, “When’s the last time you saw your fiancé?”

  “The day of the night game. She was here in my office.”

  “Not since then?”

  “I’ve been busy,” he said edgily.

  Buca cleared his throat. “As an engaged couple, you do live together, correct?”

  “Yes, so?”

  The Detective raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you concerned when she didn’t come home the last two nights?”

  “Until we’re married, Annette has her own apartment, according to law, so there’s space to work out any issues should they arise.”

  “And are there any?”

  Kenuda suddenly darkened. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  Buca smiled blandly. “Not at all, sir. We’re giving you the courtesy of this information that your fiancé is missing.”

  “And what’re you doing about it?”

  “Interviewing everyone who might have information, Third Cousin.” Buca and Y’or rose as one and headed toward the door.

  “Wait a second.” Kenuda came around his desk. “Do you think she’s okay?”

  Buca shrugged.

  Elias was staring blankly at the endless demanding messages from all over the country when a bell tinkled softly and Pablo’s face drifted onto the screen. A follow-up to the dismissal of every Cousin candidate was automatically sent to their potential mentor; just because someone failed at achieving candidacy didn’t mean they should be dismissed completely. There might be an opportunity for a reach-out on a personal level to guide them to something more suitable. As Grandma’s Twentieth Insight said, Being what you can be isn’t the same as being what you think you are.

  Kenuda was about to file this, but a dancing flower icon kept insisting he had to read the report first. He was too tired to argue with a rose and began skimming, slowing down as he absorbed the details.

  Again with that damn diner?

  • • • •

  HIS BROTHER HAD moved back in right after the Janazah like once their father was dead, he and Mama couldn’t take care of themselves. On the first night of the mourning, Omar moved Papa’s chair to the corner of the dining room, insisting that was proper according to the Quran.

  Mama was too busy crying. She’d cried for a week. She’d cried especially loudly when Papa came already wrapped in the white kafan.

  “I must see him again,” she’d screamed in the funeral home. The director, who looked like a frog, insisted Papa had been badly burned and they had to wrap him to prevent leakage. All of that sounded disgusting and made Mama yell even more, but Abdul didn’t cry. He had to be brave as much as his heart broke. He was afraid to let Mama down.

  That was the love and sadness part of his heart. He was afraid to leave Mama alone, but Omar ordered him to resume normal life once the mourning was over. He said that as if Abdul’s normal life was bad.

  Abdul played a lot of football. In the madrassa, his friends offered their apologies and prayers. But it wasn’t like when Khalil’s father died last year. Some Crusaders had bombed a school and Khalil’s father was one of the police who hunted them down. In the shoot-out, Khalil’s father was killed. He was a hero. There were photos of him ever
ywhere, online, in newspapers, on television. Khalil was proud of his father.

  There were no photos of Papa. No one mentioned his name. Abdul was convinced he had been murdered on a secret assignment for the Grand Mufti, not when his boat had caught fire.

  He’d asked Mama why she believed that Papa, an experienced Captain, wouldn’t have escaped. Mama just cried and said he should ask Allah. He had asked Allah that and many other questions like why Omar hadn’t died instead, but Allah hadn’t answered.

  Abdul had no one else to ask.

  That night he lay in bed, bouncing his ball from knee to knee. His brother entered, prayed and removed his black robe, sneering at Abdul dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. He disappeared into the bathroom, brushing his teeth like a noisy pig, and flopped onto the bed. He started reading the Quran just to impress Abdul because he didn’t turn the page and his eyes kept locked in one place.

  “Can I help you?” Omar asked like they were in a store or something.

  “No.”

  “Then stop staring.”

  “Stop making noises.”

  Omar angrily turned on his side. “I don’t make noises.”

  Abdul snorted like a pig.

  “How dare you accuse me of being unclean.”

  “You’re not unclean. Just your throat.”

  Omar sat up. “You know nothing.”

  “I know animal noises.”

  His brother rolled away and continued pretending to read. After a moment, he said, “What are your plans?”

  Abdul hadn’t thought beyond bouncing the football. Omar looked at him pityingly. “For life.”

  “Becoming a football player.”

  Omar snickered. “You’re too short.”

  “I’m fast. Papa said that’s more important.”

  “What did he know?”

  Abdul squeezed the ball. “Everything.”

  His brother smirked. “Right.”

  “And he’s in Heaven giving me advice now.”

  Omar shook his head. “No, he’s not.”

  “I hear him.”

  “Not from there. He didn’t go to Heaven.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “He liked the Crusaders. He helped the Crusader children.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “He didn’t pray. He wasn’t faithful. I had to leave home because he shamed our family.”

  “No.”

  “Allah hated him.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Allah hates traitors.”

  Abdul sat up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you say that.”

  “Pay attention,” Omar said dismissively, leaning against the pillow. “You’re better off that he’s dead. At least if you try, you might have a future.”

  Abdul rolled the ball from knee to knee, then fired an overhead pass which hit Omar in the face. He screamed. Abdul started smothering him with the pillow. There was a lot of blood before his mother pulled him off.

  • • • •

  DRAWINGS OF FIVE frogs, all very different in the evolutionary process, rested before the children sitting cross-legged on the twinkling grass. The Irish girl with the big green eyes was the only one who spoke English and even that Zelda barely understood. Brogue, was that the phrase?

  Zelda squirmed, Diego poking away. She’d barely slept what with Clary using her as a sofa and the other three children in the tiny cabin taking turns snoring. Tired and uncomfortable, but she could somehow sit here for hours; Zelda suddenly missed teaching.

  The four boys rolled their eyes, impatient to get away and join their friends in running around rocks and kicking stones, the game of the day.

  Zelda pointed at the Irish girl’s picture. “Be a frog.”

  “How?”

  “Be what you draw.” Wishing she had a crane, Zelda hopped unsteadily; the boys laughed.

  The Irish girl rescued her, sticking out her tongue at the boys who, even if they were Swedish/German/Hungarian/Russian who knows what, understood a dare. She hopped and they hopped and soon passing children, leaving their music and dance and language classes, joined in, ribbeting from around the world.

  Clary shoved through the circle with a jealous scowl and sat beside Zelda as the class was dismissed to find more wonders in this weird-ass place.

  “What’s that?” Zelda pointed at a plastic bag under Clary’s arm. The girl waited warily until all the children had scattered and unfolded the Yankees t-shirt.

  “Bueno,” Zelda said.

  “Beisbol, si.” Clary mimed swinging a bat. “Home run. We go.”

  Zelda frowned. “We go where?”

  “To Puppy Beisbol.”

  She tenderly squeezed Clary’s arm. “No, sweetheart. We don’t go to Puppy Beisbol. We stay here. New casa. Amigos, games. Happy.”

  Happy’s a lot easier when you have no choices.

  Clary’s nostrils flared. “We go to Puppy Beisbol. Yankee Stadium.”

  Diego kicked and Zelda figured she could only tolerate so much self-indulgence from her children. “Yankee Stadium? No, we don’t…”

  “Me.” She clenched her hands. “Not Zelda. Muchachas go.” Clary ran in a dizzying circle mish-mashing different languages of all the muchachas. She finished, surly hands on hips.

  Zelda firmly led Clary over to a row of tree stumps which served as a bench.

  “Clary and muchachas go?” Clary nodded. “To Puppy Beisbol.” Clary nodded again, relieved by Zelda’s sudden insight.

  “Abuela muerta.” Clary hummed the Grandma song.

  Zelda gripped her shoulders. “Why are you singing that?”

  Clary kept humming, adding a smirk. Zelda shook her to stop, but Clary continued in a melodically defiant sing-song until finally she stopped, as if Zelda were punished enough, and said with finality, “Puppy Beisbol.”

  Hazel was teaching a class on woodworking by the gentle stream which wound its way around the spidery roads, licking through the massive trees brushing against the gleaming, phosphorous ceiling. Zelda caught his attention and waited near a clump of bushes.

  He limped over with a big smile. “Morning. How’s it going?”

  “Like I’ve been here for years.”

  “That’s the idea,” he said. “Not thinking about the outside world’s a nice notion.”

  Zelda steadily met his stare. “How’s Clary doing?”

  He chuckled. “Quite a little girl. I think she might run the world someday.” They considered Empress Clary for a moment. “And a pretty good athlete. She took out a second baseman with a high slide to his chest yesterday. It was a little dirty.”

  “She made it all the way from Barcelona. That must have a price.”

  “So do all these kids. Rapes, beatings, watching their families murdered. About fifteen thousand orphans.”

  “Just living here.”

  “Until it changes,” he said carefully. “They’re not going into Cousins homes anymore. No more brainwashing.”

  “You rescued them?”

  “Sort of,” Hazel sighed impatiently. “I can give you more background another time.”

  “I’m more interested in Clary’s Yankees shirt.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “She said you’re taking her to a baseball game.”

  “No.” He smiled cautiously.

  “Clary doesn’t lie.”

  Hazel thoughtfully tossed aside pebbles. “I think she’s a little confused. There are twenty-two languages here, last I checked. Communication can be a problem.”

  “I’ve met two teachers who speak Spanish.”

  “They think they speak Spanish.” Hazel rubbed his Gelinium knee. “There’s going to be a special game in a few days honoring the veterans. We want these kids who came to America to know our history and what these soldiers sacrificed so there’d be somewhere left in this world where they’re wanted. We’ve found a way to pull down a feed of the game off the vidsport. The kids are getting t-shirts for both the Yankees and Cubs so we can make i
t a party and have everyone watch. Hot dogs and pizza. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Will they be singing songs?”

  Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “Like which ones?”

  Zelda hummed the Grandma Muertas song.

  Hazel didn’t smile.

  • • • •

  TOMAS COULDN’T CONCENTRATE. Half a bottle of Illinois Blue Bourbon last night hadn’t helped. Nor did Cheng insisting he repeat the conversation with Grandma three times, every word, every inflection.

  “Damnit, there’s nothing else,” he exploded. “She wants me gone.”

  There, he’d finally said it. The bourbon, the anger, lack of sleep, the fear erupted. He turned away, ashamed of his tears. Cheng sat beside him on the narrow couch in his office.

  “It’s not you, Tomas. This has been a long time coming.” Albert hesitated. “I’ve covered up for her for years.”

  Tomas frowned. “What’re you talking about? Grandma’s top of her game.”

  “You hear the orders, not the deliberation.”

  “I know how she thinks…”

  “Do you really?” That stung Tomas into silence. “She wanted to let Allahs in about three years ago.”

  Tomas couldn’t believe this. “How?”

  “Dissidents. We received a report from Morocco about some group, cult, who can keep up with the names, but supposedly, they were unhappy about the Caliphate. Like the Son, but more officially. The Mufti of the Moroccan Caliphate was eager to get rid of them. In the dispatch the Cairo Collector passed along, they were considered dhimmi, infidels, whatever. Grandma swallowed the bait. Can you imagine fifty thousand Allahs back in America under the guise of political dissidents? Oh, she ranted and raved about our roots as an immigrant nation. Finally Laredo and Denise,” Cheng referred to a couple Second Cousins, “weighed in and we convinced her they’d be security risks. The children, she kept saying. Where will the Allah children grow up?”

  White flecks dotted Cheng’s lips. “Where the hell will American children live if the Camels blow us up again?”

  Tomas had no recollection of this. Wait. Three years ago. That’s when she dropped out of sight the first time.

  “She also dabbled in unilateral disarmament,” Cheng’s voice dropped as if too horrified to even say the words.