NO SAFE PLACE

by Steven M. Roth

  It took Trace a little more than thirty minutes to walk to the Palm Court Hotel at 3rd and Las Olas, the hotel where Ibrahim and Jenna currently were living as squatters.

  From the outside this 1930s hotel looked just as Trace remembered it. He had stayed there three years before on the recommendation of Harlan Crockett, one of his law partners, when Trace had come to Fort Lauderdale to find a condominium apartment to buy for Nanna after Isabella’s father died.

  He particularly liked the hotel’s European ambiance with its terra-cotta floors, fireplaces in abundance, lush tropical gardens, a view of the New River, and rooms furnished with period furniture. Much to his surprise, he even enjoyed the traditional tea and scones offered in the lobby every weekday afternoon from 3:00 – 5:00.

  Trace walked up the faux marble steps, across the broad patio, and into the entrance hall. He did not notice the soldier watching him from a dark entryway across the street.

  The first thing he sensed upon entering the vestibule was the foul odor that enveloped him like an intense morning fog.

  He looked around. Trash cluttered the floor.

  He stepped over and around human flotsam as he carefully walked across the vestibule to the lobby. He paused at the lobby’s entrance and looked inside.

  The lights were turned down. Most of the open space was cluttered with debris.

  He looked around hoping to see Ibrahim or Jenna.

  He studied the room systematically from where he stood at the entrance, following a mentally constructed grid system. He didn’t see Ibrahim and Jenna.

  As he turned to leave, his cell phone rang.

  “Don’t leave,” Ibrahim said. “We’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Trace looked around again trying to find them.

  “Where are you?” he said. “I just looked for you and Jenna. I don’t see you.”

  “Look up. No, look more to your right,” Ibrahim said. “We’re up here on the mezzanine level.”

  Trace saw Jenna slowly waving her arm back and forth in a slow arc. He raised his hand and tentatively waved back. Then he put the phone to his ear.

  “I’m going outside,” he said. “Meet me on the patio,”

  Jenna gave him the thumbs-up signal.

  As he made his way from the hotel into fresh air, Trace took a long breath and held it. Then he let it out slowly. He thought about the fact that Jenna hadn’t called Isabella as she’d said she would. He thought about how her failure to place the call had caused Bella so much anguish. He decided to file this information away for now, not raise it, but not forget it either.

  Trace sat off to the side of the building, on the patio, hidden behind a high, well-trimmed boxwood hedge that blocked his view of the street and sidewalk and, in turn, protected him from being seen. Ibrahim and Jenna joined him there.

  They made small talk at first, chewing on events that had affected them. They avoided the subject of Jenna’s arrest and subsequent release. Jenna did not mention that she hadn’t called Bella.

  The talk soon veered to food, or, specifically, to the lack of it, and their shared persistent hunger.

  “There’s nothing to eat at the hotel,” Ibrahim said. “Not even a candy bar or crackers. I know because I looked.”

  “That’s what we do today then,” Trace said. “We find food.” He looked at Jenna. “We can’t all go out together. We’ll be stopped again if we do. I’ll go with one of you, either one. Your call. ”

  “Ibrahim should go,” Jenna said. “I’ll be okay. I have you both in my cell phone directory if I need you.”

  That decided, Ibrahim hugged and kissed Jenna. Then he and Trace left.

  As they left, Trace thought, I’ll hold-off saying anything about teaming-up until I see how this kid thinks and acts while we’re out. I need to see, at the very least, that I can rely on him. Part of being a successful SEAL, Trace knew, meant that you accurately tracked the psychological mind-set of your comrades.

  Jenna waited for half a minute to pass after Ibrahim and Trace left, then she walked away from the patio and out onto the sidewalk. She watched as Trace and Ibrahim turned a distant corner and walked out of sight. Then she pulled out her cell phone and pressed a speed dial button.

  The phone at the other end of the call rang twice before someone answered it.

  Jenna said, “They just left the hotel. What do you want me to do?”

  CHAPTER 62

  Quarantine

  Day 25

  Trace and Ibrahim walked away from the beach side of Fort Lauderdale, crossing in quick succession Isle of Palms Avenue, Royal Plaza, Coral Way, and San Marco Drive, as they headed toward Fort Lauderdale’s downtown business district.

  “What’d you have in mind when you said we’d try to find food?”

  “I meant we’d first see if there’s some government source we can tap into that we don’t know about,” Trace said. He paused to consider what it was he thought they should do. Then he said, “As much as I hate to say it, we should go to the ODMC headquarters to find out. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll figure out something else to try.”

  They walked almost three-quarters of a mile when Trace said, “Ibrahim? Is that a Middle Eastern name? It sounds Biblical, Old Testament-like.”

  “It’s Middle Eastern. Syrian. Abraham in English.”

  “Syrian?” Trace said. “How long have you been in the United States?”

  “Since 1994,” Ibrahim said. “I came with my parents and sister from Israel.”

  “Wait a minute,” Trace said. “Israel? I’m confused. Are you Syrian, Muslim, or an Israeli Jew? Or, what?”

  “A Syrian Jew with U.S. citizenship now. My family and I were members of a small Sephardic Jewish community in Syria, in Aleppo to be exact, where my ancestors lived for almost three thousand years.”

  “I didn’t know there were Jews in Syria,” Trace said.

  “There aren’t many, not anymore.”

  “How’d you get to Israel?”

  “In the early 1990s after the Madrid peace conference, President Clinton pressured Syria to allow its Jews to emigrate or, at least, travel. The government acquiesced about travel, but not emigration. But to travel, we Jews each had to post four thousand dollars as a bond for our return, and we were required to leave a family member behind as a hostage.”

  “What’d you do?” Trace could see that this discussion troubled Ibrahim, but he wanted to know this person better, so he’d keep asking questions.

  “My mother, father, younger sister, and I posted our cash bonds and received travel visas, provided we returned within twenty days. Obviously, we didn’t care about the money and planned to forfeit it as the price of leaving Syria behind us once and for all.”

  “Who stayed behind as the hostage?”

  “That part is very sad,” Ibrahim said. He frowned. “My grandmother — my nanna — stayed behind as our human bond. She insisted we go without her, and not return. She said she wanted to die in her village, nowhere else, not even in Israel. We’ve never heard from her again. We assume the worst.”

  Trace considered this. Ibrahim could be an important ally here. I need to know more about him.

  “Were you in the Israeli army?”

  “Of course,” Ibrahim said. “All able-bodied men and women serve. I did my duty.”

  “Were you a combat soldier, special ops? Did you train in some specialty?” Trace asked.

  Ibrahim stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m hoping you have some special skill that will be helpful while we’re in the Quarantine Zone. As you know, I was a SEAL. I have certain SEAL-taught skills that can be useful. I was thinking maybe we can team-up and support one another until the quarantine ends.”

  “I was a nerd computer specialist. I attacked enemy computer network systems for the military,” Ibrahim said. “I never saw actual combat, I’m happy to say.”

  “A hacker. . . Well, it’s not too likely we’ll need that skill to survive here, b
ut who knows.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes when Trace said, “How well do you know Jenna?”

  “Pretty well, I guess,” Ibrahim said. After a brief pause, he added, “Probably not all that well. It depends. Why?”

  Trace didn’t answer.

  Ibrahim said, “Probably as well as you can know someone from school. We met in the U. S. Army ROTC after I came to America, became a citizen, and entered college. Jenna was my ROTC squad leader. I never did get used to calling her Sir.”

  Trace chuckled. “You two are pretty close, then?”

  “Close enough. We were lovers for a time at school, but not anymore. Now we’re friends. Nothing physical. Well, sometimes physical, but not usually. Why?”

  “She’s in ROTC?”

  Ibrahim rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. She’s in it big time. Unlike me. I did it for the money for a while, then got out. Jenna went on to the advanced program. She’ll have a two year Army commitment after she graduates. She’ll be a second lieutenant.”

  “Interesting,” said Trace. “And you trust her?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “No reason,” Trace said. “Just curious.”

  Trace paused at the steps leading to the entrance of ODMC’s headquarters.

  “Are you okay?” Ibrahim said. “You look upset.”

  Trace looked up at the row of windows on the floor where he’d been held and questioned. He turned to Ibrahim. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  A guard at the entrance required that they state their business before he would admit them to the building. Then he told them they were at the wrong place for food information, that they needed to visit any post office or Army recruiting office to obtain the food rationing regulations.

  “We’re not asking about rationing,” Trace said to the guard. “We want to ask about sources of food. Rationing is irrelevant if you can’t first locate the food.”

  The guard frowned at Trace, and said, “Move along. I’ve answered your question, Sir.”

  Trace turned to Ibrahim as they walked away. “There’s a post office four or five blocks from here, at 12th and Federal Highway. Let’s go there, see if we can get an answer.”

  As they walked away from ODMC headquarters, Trace’s cell phone sounded. Trace pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen.

  “It’s my wife,” he said. “I need to take this.”

  Trace turned his back on Ibrahim and walked a few steps away, listening to Isabella as he walked. When he ended the call he turned back to Ibrahim.

  “I need to go,” Trace said. “It’s my mother-in-law. I’ll explain later. Keep your phone turned on. I’ll call you.”

  CHAPTER 63

  Quarantine

  Day 25

  As Trace turned away, anxious to return home to Isabella, Ibrahim called him back.

  “But, Trace—”

  Trace hesitated, then turned around to face Ibrahim.

  “What, Ibrahim? I’m sorry, but I have to go. Can’t it wait?”

  “I was just wondering. Should I try to find out about food while you’re gone? I mean, when will we hook up again?”

  “Sure, that’s good. You do that. We can talk or meet later. As I said, I’ll call you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ibrahim said. He scuffed the sidewalk with the sole of his shoe. “I just wanted to know what to do, that’s all. I’ll wait for your call.”

  Trace stepped back over and put his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. He gave the boy a light squeeze.

  “No problem, Ibrahim. I’ll call as soon as I can. Then we’ll get together again. All right?”

  Ibrahim nodded.

  Trace slipped his key into the front door lock as if he were a burglar afraid of waking occupants. He turned the key and then the door knob, and slowly eased the door open, inch by inch, not knowing what to expect inside.

  As the door glided open, Trace saw Isabella on the sofa, stretched out, resting on one elbow with her head on her upturned palm, looking expectantly toward the door.

  She lifted her head and made a be quiet signal with her finger and lips.

  Trace nodded. He went directly to Isabella, lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, and kissed her. He lifted her partly up into his arms and pulled her in close to him. He buried his face in her hair, inhaled her familiar, comforting fragrance, then kissed her again.

  “I missed you,” he said. “Where’s Nanna?”

  “Sleeping. I had to leave her door open. She’s afraid to have me close it.”

  “I guess Nanna doesn’t have Melioidosis,” Trace said, “else they wouldn’t have let her come home.”

  “She won’t eat or drink anything,” Isabella said. “I tried to give her tea, but she vomited it back up.

  “Do we have anything to feed her?” Trace said.

  “Only those stale crackers from this morning, but mom wouldn’t even try them. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t say anything at all. I don’t know what to do.”

  Trace held Isabella in his arms. He felt as if they were reliving their moments together during Pete’s illness.

  After an hour with Isabella, Trace said, “I should go back out. I’m meeting that young fellow I told you about, Ibrahim. We’re still trying to find food.”

  “What should I do while you’re gone, Trace?”

  “Give Nanna ice chips. They’ll melt in her mouth. The fluid will be good for her if she can hold it down.”

  Isabella nodded, but said nothing. She pulled away and went back to the sofa, dropped into the corner, and tucked her legs up under her.

  “I really do have to go, Bella. I have no choice. We need food. You know that.”

  She nodded.

  “Be careful, Trace.”

  Trace nodded, checked the battery read-out on his cell phone, and left. He called Ibrahim as he walked down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 64

  Quarantine

  Day 25

  Isabella, left alone by Trace in the condo, decided she had to pull herself together and administer to her mother’s needs. She started by following Trace’s advice. She would give Nanna ice chips to offset possible dehydration.

  She went to the refrigerator, removed some ice cubes from the tray, wrapped them in a dish towel and crushed them using the flat end of the jar of peanut butter as a makeshift mallet. She put the ice chips in a bowl and, with a spoon in hand, went into Nanna’s bedroom.

  Nanna was lying on her back, her eyes closed. She was breathing through her open mouth in short, wheezing breaths.

  Isabella pulled up a chair and settled in alongside the bed. She was troubled by what she saw as she looked carefully at her sleeping parent. Nanna’s condition seems like Pete’s, she thought.

  Nanna’s skin was pale yellow, dry looking, and seemed to be stretched drumhead tight across her boney frame. Her skin seemed almost translucent.

  Isabella had washed her mother early that afternoon after Nanna had relieved her bowels in bed. Isabella avoided considering the implications of the blood she’s seen in her mother’s stool.

  She took Nanna’s hand and held it between both hers.

  Nanna opened her eyes and turned her head toward Isabella.

  “Mom, I have ice chips for you to suck on. The water will make you feel better.”

  Nanna shook her head, barely moving it.

  “Please, Mamma. You need liquids. Just try a little for me. Please.”

  Nanna opened her mouth. Isabella spooned some ice chips into her mother’s mouth. Nanna closed her mouth, melted the chips, and swallowed. Then, like a baby bird, she again opened wide.

  Isabella repeated this until all the ice chips were gone.

  “I’ll get some more, Mamma.”

  Isabella didn’t wait for an answer. She hurried to the kitchen and repeated the process of creating a bowl of ice chips. Then she hurried back to her mother.

  When she returned to the darkened bedroom, she knew something was wrong. She smelled Nanna’s f
resh vomit and voided bowels.

  She dropped the bowl and ran across the room to her mother.

  Nanna was on her back, her eyes wide open, with one hand on her stomach, and the other, claw-like at her open mouth as if she had been surprised and terrified by something she’d seen. A brown stain migrated from beneath her.

  Isabella put her palm on Nanna’s forehead.

  Nanna’s eyes and mouth remained open, unmoving.

  Isabella collapsed onto her chair and cried.

  Isabella took her time washing Nanna. Then she sprinkled Nanna with toilet water. She fixed her mother’s hair and put some rouge on her cheeks and lipstick on her lips. She dressed Nanna in clean underwear, Nanna’s favorite print dress, and slippers.

  She sat alongside the bed in the darkened room, her hands clasped on her lap, staring at her mother. After two hours, Isabella left her mother’s body, now freshly adorned and clean, lying on top of the remade bed, her arms crossed at her chest, her eyelids closed by Isabella’s loving touch. She walked out to the living room to wait for Trace to return.

  CHAPTER 65

  Quarantine

  Day 25

  When they got back together again, Ibrahim briefed Trace on what little he’d learned at the post office about the food rationing system. “I didn’t learn a thing about food sources, just rationing.”

  “Here, take this,” he said. He handed Trace the printed rationing regulations he’d picked up at the post office.

  Trace glanced at the printed sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.