“This issue has just recently come to our attention.” Principal Collins hung his head and stared at the floor. “We intend to meet it head-on. We’re scheduling an assembly to address Islamophobia and other forms of bullying. We will put a stop to it. I promise you. In the meantime, we think it is best if you don’t indulge Kareem’s feelings of persecution. Explain to him that America is a land where freedom of speech is revered. Landon, though both cruel and wrong in what he said, was exercising that right.”
Daria sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. Had she heard him correctly? “Free speech? Bad words is free speech? Bullying and hurting my son? Who is real terrorist, Principal Collins? Kareem, he do nothing.”
“He did spit on the other boy, Mrs. Azami.”
As far as Daria knew, Kareem had never seen anyone spit on another person before the incident in the market. “My son, he do this after boy call him bad name. Kareem, he is small boy. He cannot fight many bullies. School should protect him.” She lowered her hands to her abdomen, cradled the unborn child in her womb.
“You’re right, Mrs. Azami. And now that we’re aware of the situation, we’ll try our best to avoid incidents like this in the future. I will be meeting with the other boy and his mother later this afternoon. I can assure you, we’ll do everything in our power not to allow anything like this to ever occur again.”
“I want see my son now.”
“Of course.” He stood and waited.
Once she rose from her chair, he ushered her toward the nurses’ station, introduced her to Mrs. Townsend then turned back to his office.
The school nurse wore white trousers, a blue smock printed with alphabet letters in many different colors and a pair of white, rubber-soled shoes. Her hair was gray and cut very short on the sides and back, but left longer on top.
Across the small room, Kareem sat on the edge of a cot, a white blanket wrapped around his naked shoulders. His nostrils were caked with blood and a dark bruise was already rising beneath his right eye. He kept his gaze planted on his sneakers—the white Nikes he was so proud of.
Daria studied her son for a moment. With his golden skin, he was almost luminous. When he finally looked up at her, his large, almond-shaped eyes dominated a perfect face. Every time the gaze from those amber eyes landed on her, she felt as if some beautiful and very rare butterfly had perched on her shoulder. She raced over to him. “Are you okay, Kareem jan?”
He nodded, his eyes spilling tears.
Mrs. Townsend told Daria the same things the principal had. “I’ve put some ice on his eye to keep the swelling down. You may want to continue that when you get him home.” She handed Daria a plastic bag containing Kareem’s clothing. “He got a bloody nose and his shirt was torn in the struggle. He also had an accident on the playground. I’ve loaned him a pair of underpants we keep on hand for the younger children. You may send them back with him after they are laundered.” She returned to her chair.
The air was heavy and hard to breathe. Daria felt suspended in it. She set the bag on the floor, then lifted her son’s chin with her fingertip. “Is this true, Kareem? Were you fighting?”
Kareem told her what she already knew. “Landon said it was my fault all those people died in New York. And then when my pee came, Landon pointed and laughed. He called me a baby and said I needed to change my diaper.”
Nurse Townsend shifted in her chair. “There are two sides to every story, Mrs. Azami. You know even adults are scared and distrustful right now. Kids hear things. Unfortunate incidents like this are bound to happen.”
Sometimes when she held herself very still, Daria could intuit the truth. “I don’t know what is bound happen. But I know my son hurt no one.” Again, Daria fought tears. “I wish take him home now.”
Without another word, she removed the blanket, slipped a clean T-shirt over Kareem’s head and handed him a clean pair of the American jeans they’d bought so he could fit in with the other students. He took off his shoes, slipped into the jeans, then put his shoes back on. She tied them for him, grabbed the bag, took her son by the hand, lifted her head and walked out of the school.
Chapter Fourteen
For Daria Azami, hope for a better life in America came and went like the ripples in a lake. After 9-11, it was there one moment and gone the next. That terrible event marked a turning point in their lives. A time when she and Ahmed had to face the fact that who they were and who they would eventually become here in America was dependent on many factors that were no longer in their control. Neighbors who'd once been friendly to them and invited them over for barbeques, now ignored and shunned them. Children who'd once played with Kareem now harassed him, called him horrible names and viciously attacked him on the school playground—a place where children should be safe.
As she rocked her wounded son in her arms, what she wanted more than anything was for that hope they’d once held to become a reality again. Something Kareem could hold in his small hand and carry from one school day to another.
She felt Kareem relax into sleep in her arms. As she inhaled his sweet and sweaty little-boy scent, Daria realized she would kill for him and would protect him with her dying breath. Before he was born, she had no idea she’d feel a love so fierce that it would often shake her entire body.
After laying him on the sofa, she brushed his dark hair away from his forehead and rearranged the ice bag on his rapidly-blackening eye. What kind of country was this where a little boy wasn't safe on his school playground?
Sure, there were good people in America, like the detective who’d repainted their door and hung the warning sign beside it, but it seemed the ones who considered them sub-human were more prevalent.
The front door opened and Ahmed staggered in. He looked exhausted from being on his feet all day. As soon as he spotted Kareem on the sofa, he rushed over to his son and lifted the ice pack from his eye. “Not again. Why won’t they leave us alone?” His question hung in the air for a moment. “Who did this? I will hurt them.”
She grabbed Ahmed's hand with both of her own, pulled him down onto the sofa with her and stared into his eyes. "No. Zis will only prove them right about us. You must do nothing." Daria explained what had happened that day, her call from Principal Collins and her visit to the school. "Principal say Kareem, he is not all innocent. He spit on the other boy."
Ahmed’s hands curled into fists. “It is good my son fights back. I spit on this boy, too. Kareem jan, he must learn to defend himself.” Ahmed held his head in his hands, his black hair jutting out between his fingers, his elbows resting on his knees.
Without warning, he stood and slammed his fist into the middle of the coffee table. Its legs shook for an instant, then settled. "I must protect my son. It is the father's job."
Kareem sat up. The ice bag slipped off his eye. “Baba jan, why are you angry at me?”
A look came over Ahmed’s face, and when it left, so did his color. He sat back on the sofa and took Kareem into his arms. “I am not angry with you, my son. Only at the ones who did this to you.”
His words pierced something inside Daria as she watched the pain and disappointment wash over Ahmed’s face. She loved him very much at that moment.
Kareem looked up at his father with enormous eyes. “They called me a terrorist, Baba jan. Said my Afghanistan family bombed the Twin Towers. Is it true, Baba? Are we murderers?”
"This is a terrible lie because people are so ignorant. They do not see the truth." Ahmed spoke slowly, framing his words. "Because some very bad people, in the name of our god, Allah, did this terrible thing, all of us who believe have become suspects. You are a good boy, Kareem. You do not deserve… and I will…"
Daria’s breath came out in a rush and she sat very still, waiting for what Ahmed would do next.
Her husband’s eyes were open wide and fixed as if he were looking at something very far away.
She was worried, but as far as she knew, Ahmed had never done anything violent. Never acted viciously ag
ainst another living creature. He didn’t even kill spiders in the apartment. Instead, he carefully stalked them with a water glass and paper napkin before giving them their freedom. But this was their son. He’d been verbally abused often since 9-11, everything he believed in called into question, but this was the first time he’d been physically violated.
Ahmed gently laid Kareem back on the couch and placed the ice pack on his black eye. He gave Daria a weak smile and headed for the telephone on the end table. He took a business card from his wallet, picked up the receiver and dialed. “Detective Radhauser. You must help us protect our son.”
* * *
When Radhauser hung up the phone, he paced the kitchen for a few moments, then turned to Gracie and told her what Ahmed had just reported.
“You need to call Principal Collins,” she said. “Maybe you can talk to Kareem’s class about bullying.”
Lizzie looked up from her macaroni and cheese. “There is a boy named Kareem in my class. He wears a funny white hat, and nobody plays with him.”
“Did you see what happened on the playground today?”
She giggled. “He wet his pants.”
Radhauser pulled out a chair and sat across the table from his daughter. “That’s not funny. He was scared and sometimes when we’re terrified—that means really, really afraid—we lose control of our pee and it comes out. I’ve seen it happen with grown men when they are victims and afraid for their lives. I’m sure he was embarrassed.”
Her dark eyes grew wide. "Landon is a mean kid. He punched Kareem's face so hard that blood came out his nose."
“Did you try to help Kareem when Landon was hurting him?”
"I ran inside and got Ms. Fernwood. She's nice. She took him to the nurse, then she made Landon go to the principal's office. That's what happens when you're bad."
“I’m proud of you for going to get help, Lizzie. That was the right thing to do. But it's wrong to laugh at someone who is hurt and frightened. Maybe you could make a special effort to play with Kareem.”
“If I do that, the other kids will make fun of me. They’ll say I’m a bad person like the ones who drove the airplanes into those towers.”
“How do you know that’s what they’ll say? Have you tried to be a friend to Kareem?”
She looked away. “But they will, Daddy.”
“Have you seen anything like this happen before to Kareem?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. “Landon pinches Kareem all the time. Once, he pulled his pants down on the playground and everyone could see his private parts.” Her face crumpled up. “Everybody was pointing and laughing. I’m sorry, Daddy, but I laughed, too.”
“How would you feel if someone did that to you on the playground?”
For a moment, she said nothing. A tear dropped onto her plate. “Bad. I wish I would have helped him.”
“Maybe we can still do something. Suppose you finish that macaroni and you and I get to work on something to help Kareem.”
With some valuable assistance from his seven-year-old, Radhauser put together a presentation for the first-grade class. He called both Ms. Fernwood and Mr. Collins and arranged to give a talk on bullying first thing the next morning.
* * *
Late Tuesday morning, after his presentation at the elementary school, Radhauser drove to his office. He picked up the arrest warrant from Judge Wainwright and attended the afternoon arraignment for Sherman Parsons. The man pled not guilty. It was no surprise, but it still caused Radhauser to feel a pang of conscience.
Parsons was being held without bail because of the savage nature of his wife’s murder. Junior and Jill were to be placed together in a more permanent Medford foster home.
Still not completely confident that he'd arrested the right man, Radhauser revisited the Nut House Bar and Grille before heading home on Tuesday evening. He asked Sean, the bartender, to phone him if the woman who'd been with Parsons the night his wife was murdered came in again. If Parsons were lying about his involvement with her—or if she had hopes of being more than a one-night stand—she could have a motive to kill. She left the motel early enough to have murdered Marsha Parsons. From what he was told, the woman wasn't as drunk as Parsons.
Sean came through about ten on Tuesday night when Radhauser’s phone rang.
"She's here," he said. "Drinking with a couple of other women. This time, she used a credit card to start a tab. Her name's Cheryl Castinoga."
“See if you can hold her until I get there. Shouldn’t take me more than about fifteen minutes.”
He told Gracie what was happening, then put on his western blazer and Stetson. After grabbing his holster, backpack, and shield, he jogged down the gravel driveway.
The Nut House Bar and Grille was nearly empty when Radhauser arrived, so he had no trouble spotting the booth containing three women having drinks. He nodded at Sean, then headed over to the booth and stood in front of a woman who matched the description Jesse at the Siskiyou Motel had given. “I’m looking for Cheryl Castinoga.”
"Looks like you found her, Cowboy. What can I do for you?" She batted eyelashes layered with black mascara. Big, silver hoop earrings caught the light and sparkled. Despite the abundance of makeup, she was younger than Sean had estimated, closer to thirty than forty. Her features were small and regular. Soft-looking dark hair fell to her shoulders in waves. If she washed her face, she might be pretty—maybe even wholesome-looking—a regular girl next door.
He introduced himself and showed his badge. “I need to ask you some questions. Do you mind if we sit over there for a few minutes?” He nodded toward an empty booth in a quiet corner, then took off his Stetson.
"No problem." She slid out of the booth, stood and turned to her friends. "I'll be right back. Don't you two do anything I wouldn't while I'm gone." Cheryl picked up her drink. It looked like bourbon or scotch on the rocks.
He followed her across the wide room. She filled out a pair of tight, black jeans and wore red spiked high heels and a short-sleeved black sweater with red lace inserts on the shoulders. Both wrists held silver bracelets that jingled when she walked. It was the same outfit Sean and the clerk at the Siskiyou Motel had described her wearing on Friday.
Once they settled in the booth, Radhauser ordered a diet Coke and began. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Sherman Parsons.” He pulled the tape recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I tape the interview?”
“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms and jammed her hands into her armpits. “What if I do?”
“It’s routine and might prevent you from having to come into the police station and give a statement later.”
She gave him a tentative, slightly worried look. “I guess it’s all right.”
He took that as a yes, and turned on the recorder. "This is Detective Winston Radhauser interviewing Cheryl Castinoga. It's ten-fifteen p.m. on Tuesday, May 7, 2002. We're seated at the Nut House Bar and Grille in Ashland. Please state your full name, spelling the last, and your place of residence.”
She did.
Radhauser was surprised to learn she lived on the same street as the Parsons family. “I’d like to ask you a few things about your relationship with Sherman Parsons.”
“Why?”
“Because you were seen leaving this bar with him last Friday night, May third.”
“By whom?”
“I’m the one asking the questions. And I’d appreciate some straight answers. Did you leave here with Sherman Parsons on Friday night at around nine?”
Her dark eyes twinkled. Had she already had so much to drink that she wasn’t taking him seriously? “I may have walked out the door at the same time he did.”
“So, you admit that you know him.”
She looked at her hands. Her expression changed, grew a little more pensive. “He’s in here a lot. And he’s bought me a few drinks over the last year or so.”
“I have an eyewitness who puts you at the Siskiyou Motel with him that same Friday ev
ening at a little after nine.”
She smiled. “Maybe I just walked him over there to make sure he was all right. He was pretty drunk. Someone might have taken advantage of him. Mugged him or something.”
“The desk clerk at the Siskiyou said it wasn’t the first time you’d accompanied him.”
The smile on her face withered. “Look, I like him well enough,” she said, and then her face went soft. “Maybe even more than like him. But he’s got a wife and two kids. And, in spite of all his promises, I don’t see him doing anything about it. At least not anytime soon.”
Radhauser’s radar went on high alert. Did she like him well enough to take things into her own hands so she could have him all to herself?
“The clerk at the motel said you left around nine-thirty. Can you tell me why?”
“Sherm was safe in his room. And drunker than I’ve ever seen him before. He needed to sleep it off.”
“Where did you go when you left?”
She cocked her head and stared at him for a moment. “I walked home and went to bed.”
“Where’s home?”
“I already gave you my address. I rent a one-bedroom cottage behind one of the big houses.”
"So, you live near Parsons."
“Same street, but about six houses down the block from them.”
“Do you know Marsha Parsons?”
“I’ve seen her around, pushing the baby in the stroller. Or running after Junior on his tricycle. But I never met her. From what Sherm told me, she’s a real bitch. One of the neighbors called Child Services on her. The kids are really cute, but she’s pretty hard on them.” She lowered her gaze and once again, her voice softened. “I’d be a much better mother.”
Radhauser flashed on the line drawing of a mother and child on Marsha’s severed hand. “You seem like a smart woman, Cheryl. And I’m sure you’re aware that most cheating husbands tell their girlfriends their wives don’t understand them and are bitches.”
Red Hatchet Falls Page 11