Red Hatchet Falls

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “Get your elbow back and watch the damn ball,” Coach Baker shouted. “Didn’t I tell you to only swing at the good ones?”

  When the muscles in Ahmed’s back stiffened, something cold made its way up Daria’s spine.

  Ahmed returned to his chair but sat on the edge of his seat.

  She placed what she hoped was a calming hand on her husband’s knee.

  The second pitch was a perfect strike and Kareem failed to swing.

  “Damnit, Kareem. Are you blind? What’s wrong with you? That was a good one. You’re supposed to swing at those.”

  Ahmed leaned back in his chair, never taking his gaze from his son.

  Kareem hung his head, stared at his baseball shoes, and let the next ball whoosh by him. It was another strike.

  “Strike three,” the umpire roared.

  A cheer went up from the Sox dugout. The game was over. The White Sox had won five runs to four.

  Just behind home plate, Coach Baker grabbed Kareem by the shoulders and shook him hard. “Damnit, Osama. Do you need glasses or something? You went and lost the damn game for us.”

  Kareem cried. “My name is not Osama. My name is Kareem Jamil Azami.”

  Before she could do anything to stop him, Ahmed was on his feet and racing toward Coach Baker. “What did you call my son?” Ahmed stood, hands planted on his hips, in front of the coach who was at least five inches taller.

  "I called him Osama. A baby bin Laden. You plan to do something about it?"

  “That name is an offense to all we stand for. My son is no terrorist. He is a little boy trying to fit into a world with no place for him.”

  “Damn right America doesn’t have a place for any Muslim bombers who kill in the name of their stupid god. Take that little shit for brains boy of yours and go back where you belong. America is not your country. Allah is not America’s god.”

  Some other parents gathered around, watching. Whispers spread from ear to ear like a swarm of yellowjackets.

  Ahmed grabbed Baker by his shoulders and shook him the way Baker had shaken Kareem. “You keep your hands off my son.”

  Baker pushed him hard.

  Ahmed fell backward and landed on the ground.

  The umpire held out his hand to help Ahmed up.

  Coach Baker shot a disgusted look at both of them, then stepped into the dugout to talk to his team.

  Kareem slipped under the coach’s arm and ran toward his father.

  Once on his feet again, Ahmed brushed the dirt from his jeans. His face was red and contorted.

  When his eyes dimmed, Daria saw something leave her husband. Something she recognized as hope.

  “I will kill you,” he shouted, pumping a defiant fist in the air. “I will kill you for your ridicule of my son.”

  Daria lumbered out of her chair and walked over to her family. She grabbed Ahmed’s arm, took Kareem’s hand and dragged them into the parking lot. Once inside their vehicle, Ahmed’s entire body began to shake. It was like he had chills with a high fever, his skin flushed and mottled. “You must be calm,” Daria said. “He is bad man. You cannot change him.”

  Ahmed said nothing, but the veins in his neck stood out like cables. He stared at Daria, his brow hooded and his mouth stretched into an angry-looking line. “We forgot our chairs.”

  “Please do not make more trouble.”

  Ahmed got out of the car, ran back and grabbed their chairs, then hurried into the parking lot. After tossing the chairs into the trunk, he climbed inside and started the car. They drove the short distance home in silence.

  Ten minutes later, Ahmed pulled into the parking lot of their apartment complex and turned to Daria. “You go home. Lock the doors and let no one inside.” He waited for them to get out, his hand slapping the steering wheel.

  Daria slipped from the car and hurried around to the driver’s window. “Where are you going? He is bad man. You must ignore. You must stay away from him.” She opened the back door for Kareem.

  He stood beside his mother, holding her hand.

  Ahmed studied his wife and son for a long moment, then drove off without another word.

  * * *

  After lunch, Daria told Kareem to rest in his bedroom. She did not know how long she sat, alone, in the living room, but it was long enough for the sun to make its way over their rooftop. It lingered above the mountains in the west, turning them shades of pink and purple. Worried about Ahmed, she had not moved for hours, except to wipe her eyes.

  Outside the big window, as the sun reflected its golden rays on the Siskiyou Mountains, Daria was reminded of her beloved Hindu Kush range in their native Kabul. When the baby kicked, a terrible feeling of sadness washed over her as she cradled her belly. Had she and Ahmed made a terrible mistake by moving away from everything they had held most dear? What happened to their dream of a better life in America?

  She made a simple dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and soup for herself and Kareem. Still no sign of Ahmed.

  It was after eight o'clock when she heard the knock on the front door. Daria leaped from the sofa and checked the peephole. When she saw it was Ahmed, she drew the chain from its cradle and opened the door.

  He took her in his arms. “I’m sorry. I did not want Kareem to see me so angry at his coach.” He rubbed his hand over her belly. “How is our baby girl?” The moment he asked about their baby, something seemed to break inside him, some melting of the wall of anger he had erected around his heart. His entire body softened against her.

  She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him. “Where have you been?”

  “I took a drive in the country to calm myself, out toward the lake in Klamath Falls. I parked beside the water and thought about a lot of things. Like whether or not we should stay in this country.”

  She told him she had been having similar thoughts. “And you are feeling better now?”

  "Perhaps a little, I am not so sure. I keep thinking about what happened at the ballpark with that horrible man. And it seems a turning point. Like I look at my image in the mirror and realize what happens to us here is not in my control. You, me, and even Kareem and our baby, are pawns in America's game of hating everyone who resembles that murderer, Osama bin Laden." Though his words were dark and angry, his voice was very soft.

  Yes, Daria was thinking the same kinds of things, but for now, she wanted to shine a light into his darkness. To make him see there were also good people and things in their life here. The Taliban with their brutality and constant bombings were far away.

  "I have an idea," she said. "Let's take a drive into Grants Bass. We can get ice cream cone for Kareem at the Dairy Queen and take walk by Rogue River. Maybe the ducks will still be out on the river bank and he can feed them. It is a beautiful evening. A walk will make us feel better."

  “I fear we should not be out after the sun goes down.”

  "We cannot stay inside forever. It is our country now. We are US citizens. We have a right to be here. In the day time. And night times, too."

  Ahmed studied her for a moment, then touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

  The way he looked at her, with those big amber eyes, always made her feel as if she were fourteen again, meeting him for the first time in the living room of her parents’ house in Kabul. Like so many in their home country, Daria and Ahmed’s marriage had been arranged by their parents. Ahmed was eight years older than her and one of her father’s medical students at the University of Kabul. With so many friends being forced to marry men old enough to be their fathers or grandfathers, Daria felt lucky. Within a few months of their union, she loved Ahmed with all her heart. “It is a full moon tonight,” she added. “A walk will be beautiful.”

  “You are right,” he replied. “Tell Kareem to bring his jacket in case it gets cold along the river.”

  She hurried down the hallway to Kareem’s room. Daria found him at his desk, drawing a picture of a cowboy on a horse. “We will go for ice cream.” She adjusted her niqab
. “Bring your jacket.”

  A moment later, Kareem raced into the living room, his jacket dragging behind him. “May I have chocolate? A big one?” He sat on the edge of the sofa, like a little bird ready to take flight.

  "Yes, you may." Ahmed had changed into his more comfortable and traditional dress, a pair of loose white pants with a drawstring waist and a long white robe. He still wore his white taqiya beneath a black keffiyeh he'd wrapped into a turban. Ahmed knelt in front of his son, then gently placed his hands on his shoulders. "You are a fine boy and you must never let anyone, like Coach Baker, make you believe you are not."

  "Thank you, Baba jan." He smiled a sad and heartbreaking smile.

  Before leaving their apartment, Ahmed gave Daria and Kareem the same lecture he always gave, especially if they were to be out after dark. “Be careful. If someone starts to harass us, do not talk back unless you are asked a specific question. Be polite. Do not argue. Just agree with whatever it is they say, okay?”

  In some ways, it was no different than it had been in Kabul after the Taliban took over and curfews were enforced. Daria and Ahmed had lived in constant fear until the inconceivable happened. One of the Taliban's indiscriminate bombings killed Daria's father and two brothers. Her mother had been at the market and avoided injury. But she never recovered from the loss of her husband and sons. Less than a year later, she died of a broken heart and everything Daria knew and loved about her home disappeared. Pregnant with Kareem, she and Ahmed came to America in search of a better life for themselves and their unborn son. Three months later, she gave birth. They named their son Kareem Jamil Azami after her father and oldest brother.

  Now, inside their car, Ahmed put The Hits, a country and western CD, on the player. Garth Brooks was Kareem's favorite. They were mostly silent during the trip except for Kareem in the back seat who sang along to The Dance.

  Just as Daria had hoped, their son seemed to have forgotten the run-in with his coach and the beating he had taken on the school playground. Daria smiled to herself, happy he was a child and so resilient.

  It was almost dark by the time they took the exit ramp into Grants Pass. At the first stoplight, an orange car pulled up beside them, the bass in his radio thumping so loud it was like the car had a heartbeat. The driver looked over at the Azamis, then rolled down his window and stuck his middle finger in the air.

  Daria shifted her gaze to her husband. Ahmed focused on the road in front of him and headed toward the Dairy Queen on 6th Street. With the sun low in the sky, shadows came to life. It was hard to tell what was real and what was a trick of her eyes.

  Blue and red lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. A Grants Pass police car turned on his siren behind them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ahmed gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared straight ahead, barely blinking as he continued down 6th toward the Dairy Queen. When the police car’s siren wailed, Ahmed took the first right-hand turn, trying to find a safe place to pull over. When he found nothing, he made a left onto Washington Boulevard, stopped the car and turned down Garth Brooks on the CD player.

  Daria prayed her husband would remember his own advice.

  It was a residential area and there did not appear to be anyone else on the street besides the cop car and the Azamis’ Camry.

  The police officer turned off the siren and parked behind them. He left his high beams on and the blue and red lights flashing.

  Her husband watched in the rear-view mirror as the officer stepped out of his car and walked toward them. In the bright light from the car, Ahmed’s face darkened and his spine went straight.

  The officer, who carried a flashlight, stepped up to the driver’s window and tapped on the glass.

  Ahmed pressed the button that rolled the window down.

  The officer showed his badge.

  Daria made a mental note of the number, 641.

  He flashed his light into each of their faces. He lingered a moment on Daria’s niqab which revealed only her eyes. “Take that…that... rag off your head.”

  Daria froze. She held her breath and looked to Ahmed for guidance. No man except her brothers, her father, and her husband had ever seen her face and hair. "I am a Muslim. I cannot do that."

  Ahmed’s brow furrowed. He blinked rapidly, unable to hide his shock. “This is our religion. Muslim women must keep themselves covered. It is part of our faith.”

  The officer set his jaw and glared at Daria. “I said, take it off.” He turned his gaze on Ahmed. “How do I know she’s not hiding a weapon under that thing?”

  For Daria, time became fluid and unfamiliar—a hard thing to judge as it passed.

  Kareem cried softly in the back seat. "Don't hurt us, mister policeman, sir. Please, don't hurt us."

  Daria turned slightly to look at him. "It is okay. The nice boliceman isn't going to hurt us, Kareem jan."

  When Ahmed nodded, Daria lifted her niqab, shook it out and held it up for the officer to see. “I hide nothing. May I put it back on now?”

  “Yes.” He seemed to be satisfied that she was not harboring a weapon and returned his attention to Ahmed. “May I please see your driver’s license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance?”

  Daria breathed. The police officer was being polite now—a good sign. He was young, white, and about six feet tall, well built with dark hair visible beneath his uniform cap. He was not smiling.

  Ahmed broke one of his own rules and spoke without being spoken to. “Tell me why you stop us? Why you shame and humiliate my wife? I am careful to wait for green light. We did nothing wrong.”

  After replacing her niqab, Daria rummaged through the glove compartment for the requested documents. She handed Ahmed the car registration and insurance card from State Farm. He, in turn, gave them to the officer.

  “I said I need to see your driver’s license.”

  Ahmed made no effort to reach for his wallet. “I only ask for reason you pull us over. I beg you, sir, please tell me.”

  Daria’s pulse raced and she kept stealing looks into the back seat to be sure Kareem was all right. “Give him your license, Ahmed.”

  He sighed, then took out his billfold.

  The officer kept his flashlight on Ahmed’s hands while he opened his wallet, pulled out his license and handed it over.

  The police officer looked at the three documents. “It says here you live in Ashland. What brings you to Grants Pass tonight?”

  "We come to get our son an ice cream cone," Ahmed responded.

  “Did they stop selling ice cream cones in Ashland?”

  Ahmed swallowed hard. “We wanted to take a walk along the river. Kareem, he likes to feed the ducks. I ask you with respect, sir. Why did you pull us over? We did nothing wrong.”

  “Wait here.” The officer turned and hurried back to his police car.

  “Just a minute.” Ahmed attempted to call him back to the window. “I want to know what I did to make you stop us.”

  “Ahmed,” Daria pleaded. “Do not ask questions. Do what he says.”

  “I’m tired of being treated like a terrorist. We did nothing wrong. I know I do not have a tail light out. I signaled every turn. I did not run any yellow or red lights. I was obeying the speed limit. And I demand to know why he stopped us.” His voice was sharp but held a slight tremble. Was he still angry and humiliated by the way Coach Baker had treated Kareem?

  The officer returned to the driver’s side window and raised his chin. “You people don’t get to make demands. You’re lucky you’re even allowed to be in this country after what happened in New York. If I had my way, we’d ship you all back where you belong. Now get out of the car. And put your hands in the air where I can see them.”

  Ahmed carefully opened the car door and climbed out.

  Daria heard the slap of his hands on the roof of their Camry.

  "Please, Baba jan. Don't talk back." Kareem scrambled toward the driver's side window to see his father. Tea
rs streaked his face. The little boy was more frightened than Daria had ever seen him.

  The officer patted Ahmed down but found nothing except his cell phone which he threw on the ground. "Stay here and keep your hands where I can see them." He pointed the flashlight into the car again, shone the beam in Daria's eyes. "You both stay where you are. Don't move, I mean it."

  Daria opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  The Grants Pass City police officer, badge 641, returned to his car, slid into the front seat and remained there for a few minutes.

  In the back seat of the Camry, Kareem sobbed. Tears and snot streamed down his face and he started to gag as if he were about to vomit.

  “Roll down the back window,” Ahmed said.

  Daria did.

  When Ahmed moved toward the open window and reached in to reassure Kareem, a loud shot rang out and echoed in the still air.

  It took Daria a moment to realize the officer had fired his gun. She clambered across the seat to the driver’s-side window.

  Ahmed crumpled to the ground.

  Daria screamed.

  Ahmed jerked and blood soaked through his white linen robe. It left a big, seeping red stain and puddled into a dark pool on the asphalt around him.

  Kareem opened the car door, scurried out of the back seat and knelt in the blood beside his father.

  Ahmed looked up at him, shock and fear in his eyes.

  The policeman pointed his gun at Kareem. "Get back in the car. Now!"

  Every caution inside her demanded she remain in the car, but her love for Kareem and Ahmed told her to protect them. She jumped from the passenger side and raced around the front of the car to the driver’s side where her husband lay on the road, staring up into space. Her father had been a physician in Kabul and she understood how important it was to stop the bleeding. But there was already so much blood. She used both hands to put pressure on his wound, pushing down hard.

  A sobbing Kareem ignored the policeman's order and dropped his head onto Ahmed's chest. "Don't die, Baba jan. Please, don't die."